Bringing Sexy Back
by chezchuckles
Summary: by Cora Clavia, Sandiane Carter, and chezchuckles. Fantasies become reality.
1. Chapter 1: The Shower

**Bringing Sexy Back **

**Chapter One: The Shower**

Co-authored by **Cora Clavia**, **Sandiane Carter**, and **chezchuckles**

Note: Co-authored, in this case, means one of us wrote the first three paragraphs, sent it to the next one, who wrote another three paragraphs or so, sent it on to the next one, and etc. When the end came, we all knew it was the end. Of this chapter ; )

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><p>Castle stopped suddenly in the upstairs hall, arrested by the sound of the shower running and the almost hum that seemed to carry just under the white noise of the water. Was she humming? Steam billowed out of the half-open guest bathroom door, curling around his feet and holding him captive.<p>

Beckett was in there. Naked Detective Beckett.

He shivered and clutched the guest towels closer to his chest, blinked hard to erase the searing afterimage of Beckett, nude and huddled in her bathtub, holding a hand out for his jacket.

From his position in the hall, he could just see through to the pale shower curtain. The faint profile of her body was soft like a shadow in candlelight.

He closed his eyes immediately, partly because he could almost hear her voice ("Castle, *turn around*!"), partly because of a vague sense of self-preservation that kicked in even as the glow of arousal started to shine through his body.

But after a second (or maybe a minute), after his brain complacently pointed out to him that Beckett's voice was only in his head, and after self-preservation vanished altogether, without any warning, he found his eyelids sliding open again, found himself drawn to that shower curtain.

Entranced.

He could only see a blurry outline, could only guess at the graceful lines, the delicate curves; but it was more than enough, especially when Castle had his fertile imagination at the ready.

Except when she moved *that* way - oh, no imagination needed there. He gasped and froze, then pivoted, fixing his eyes on the hardwood floor.

This wasn't right. Some part of him exclaimed indignantly, _Since when do you care?_ But he cared; couldn't help it really. This was Kate, and as much as he wanted her (he did; man, he *really* did), he was suddenly overwhelmed with righteousness, with a strange self-consciousness.

It was only then that he remembered his whole purpose in coming up here: she needed towels. Right. The best of intentions. Helping her cover herself from his prying eyes. Since apparently he'd turned into a lecherous old man.

He stared down at the towels blankly - the towels that were going to touch every inch of her wet, naked skin - and groaned because he shouldn't have let that last thought enter his mind. Great. He was never going to be able to look at the cover of a Nikki Heat book again, not when all he could think was how the real thing was so much better, even blurred through the shower door.

Speaking of which, if she discovered him out here staring at her like some perverted teenager, his death really was imminent.

But why was the door open? At least *that* wasn't his fault, he reasoned, though that probably wouldn't stop her from killing him.

She must have left it open; she must have wanted him to duck inside and put the towels on the counter of the sink so she wouldn't have to leave the bathroom dripping wet, searching through his linen closet, her skin rising with goose bumps, slick and wet and shivering-

He needed to breathe. He needed to *not* be upstairs.

He needed to just take one final look, a look to erase the one of her huddled in her tub, a look to last him until. . .however long it took.

No. Not-

"Castle? Did you find those towels yet?"

He jumped – there was no other word for it – jumped and took a retreating step, his heart hammering against his chest.

How could she – did she know – had she been aware of his presence the whole time?

Fear crept inside him, abject and irrational; fear that he had blown it, fear that she would take one look at him and frown in disgust, turn her back on him, kick him out (of her heart? her police station, her life).

The misery that sprung from that thought was devastating.

"Castle?"

Her voice pulled him back – her lilting voice, tinted with lingering amusement.

Amusement?

The icy remnants of his terror melted, washed away by a drowning wave of arousal.

God, he wasn't going to survive tonight, was he?

Still he found himself moving forward, as if her voice had tugged on an invisible chain that had an end wrapped around his heart.

"Yes," he answered, awed at how self-assured and in-control he sounded. "Yep. Found them."

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Was she. . .Was she teasing him?

He swallowed nervously. Obviously she *didn't* mean she wanted him to enter the bathroom, strip down, join her in the shower and proceed to lick every inch of her. She didn't mean that, did she? No, that - unless - No, he told himself, so stop thinking about it.

So. . .um. . .what now?

He *had* to go into the bathroom. She needed the towels. Her life might depend on it. She might catch a chill, right? He would never forgive himself if she survived the explosion merely to die of tuberculosis. Or pneumonia. Or lupus. Or plague. Or whatever. (Lupus?) He might be saving her life. And if it necessitated seeing her strong, wet body (again), well, that was something he was willing to suffer for her sake.

But since he was reasonably sure she could kill him several ways, even naked and unarmed, he decided to go with, "Um - do you want me to just put them on the counter?"

The water shut off; he could hear her dripping, the fall of water syncopated to the thud of his madly beating heart.

"Too late," she said and poked her head out of the shower curtain, brushing her hair back with a hand. "Bring 'em here."

Oh no. Oh God. He was going to die.

Castle swallowed hard and came forth like a servant, towels offered up, fighting the urge to genuflect, watching all the while as beads of water skated down her shoulder, dripped from her elbow, like a royal robe of clear, crystal water.

He somehow found the presence of mind to meet her eyes and was nearly undone. Droplets clumped in her lashes and sent prisms of beauty across her cheeks, deeper into her dark irises.

"Hurry up, Castle. I'm freezing," she said, reaching out a long, wet arm.

He took that last step and she lunged for a towel, flashing more skin at him than he knew what to do with, think about, handle.

She disappeared behind the curtain with a flourish, giving him the chance to breathe again. "Have you got anything I could wear?"

All that fresh, wholesome oxygen vanished somewhere on the way to his lungs, and he almost choked, only very nearly avoiding a fit of coughing. Visions of Beckett in his shirt (and nothing but his shirt), Beckett in his boxers, Beckett naked with a sheet draped over the long line of her body assailed his mind, battered his defenses, left him helpless and gaping in front of the shower curtain that trembled with her every movement.

"Sure," he managed, and he had the terrible feeling that she could hear exactly how strangled his voice sounded. "What do you want? A shirt, I guess, and pants? Or shorts? I can always give you something of Alexis's, because the size would probably be more –"

"I'm sure yours will do just fine," Beckett interrupted confidently, pushing the curtain away and stepping out of the shower.

He was not ready – he wasn't – he would never be ready for the sight of Kate Beckett wrapped in one of his white towels, the hem barely reaching the middle of her thighs (which were lovely, of course, just like the rest of her). She had an arm folded across her chest to make sure the whole thing stayed in place; a mixture of disappointment and relief flooded him.

Relief was stronger, though, because he clearly didn't have the means to handle more Kate Beckett at the moment.

Especially when she met his eyes, the line of her mouth twisted like she was holding back a smile, and pushed back her dark, wet hair (he wanted to kiss the line of her neck, map her skin with his tongue, feel her shiver against him).

"Do you have magical powers that I'm not aware of, Castle?"

"Uh. . ."

"Did you have special lessons with Professor Dumbledore?"

He could tell she was still attempting to swallow her mirth, but there was no hiding the sparks dancing in those green eyes. Castle tried to focus, kick his brain back into gear, but it was a lost cause when she was standing so close that he could smell her, smell his soap all over her.

But it seemed that he was dealing with a merciful Beckett: when he looked at her in confusion, his eyebrows knit, she allowed the smile to bloom on her lips and condescended to explain.

"I asked you for clothes and you're still standing here, like you expect them to come to you. So, unless you've been practicing that summoning charm from Harry Potter, I'm not exactly sure why you're still here."

The words slowly translated into his fantasy-addled mind. She was making fun of him. She was using_ Harry Potter_ to make fun of him no less.

But rather than rising to the challenge, Castle found he had nothing. Brain running on empty. Dead from the neck up. "Uh – no, I, uh – I'll, um, go get them." He escaped the bathroom hastily, wondering where all his dazzling wit and innuendo had gone, leaving him staring at a nearly-naked Kate Beckett like he'd never seen a beautiful woman before. (He had, but none of them had been her.)

And now he got to stand in front of his closet and wonder what he wanted to see Kate Beckett wearing. (Nothing.)

He was half-tempted to just give her a button-down with several buttons missing, but then he decided the sight might seriously give him a coronary, and if she was going to parade through his apartment in _his_ clothing, he at least wanted to be alive to enjoy it.

So he pulled out a hooded sweatshirt that zipped up the front, figuring she could decide if she wanted it zipped up to her throat or open to her navel. She could be a hooker or a nun, whatever she chose. Good plan. Leave difficult decisions in the hands of the woman who was laughing at him. While wearing only a towel and water droplets.

Sigh.

He found an old pair of sweatpants and some socks, thinking she might like her feet to stay warm on his hardwood floors. He was about to head back to the bathroom when he realized he didn't know if she was wearing underwear. (Well, of course, not right now, but with pajamas?) Would she want a pair of his boxers?

The images that blossomed in his mind were almost too much. He groaned, rubbed his head. Why wasn't Alexis here? He should have let his daughter handle this. Or his mother. Richard Castle was in no way equipped to handle the task of deciding which of his clothes should be draped over Kate Beckett's naked body. Her wet, naked body. Wet and naked and still warm from the shower and –

He clamped down on the thought before it could go further.

Well, better safe than sorry. He pulled out a pair of boxers, found a t-shirt, and decided Beckett could figure it out on her own. Since he was already a mess. He headed back for the bathroom. He was not running, no. Just didn't want to keep her waiting. That was all.

"I brought – oh. Uh."

He almost dropped the clothes as he peered into the bathroom to find Beckett rubbing lotion onto her long, smooth legs. Oh God. She was trying to kill him.

"I borrowed some. Think they'll mind?" She shook the lotion at him, and seriously, all he could think was that she was offering it to him, asking him to help her out.

It took him a moment to bring his brain back. "Here. Oh. Yeah, no, no one will mind." He handed her the clothes, but she held her hands up.

"Lotion. Just drop them right there," she said. Her lips were quirking at him. So amused.

Enough.

He dropped the clothes, took a step forward, and grabbed the bottle of lotion from her hand. He threw it aside. Her leg was still propped up on the sink between them; he wrapped his fingers around her knee, smooth and silky and smelling like honeysuckle.

"Beckett."

He brushed his thumb over her kneecap, his fingers at the back of her knee, the soft skin that twitched under his touch. She might be amused, but the flush creeping up over the towel said she was just as aroused as he was.

"Castle?"

He slid his hand down her raised thigh; she sucked in a breath, her eyes darting to his mouth and then flicking back to his eyes. He stopped at the bottom edge of the towel, entirely too short of paradise, his gaze arrested by her.

"Castle, what are you doing?"

"If I have to explain it, Kate, I'm not doing it right."

He saw the flicker of panic in her eyes, but he also caught the subtle dilation of her pupils, the darkness drowning the deep green of her irises. He drew his hand up again, slowly, his fingers splayed to make the most of it, touch all he could get of her.

His fingertips pressed on the delicate skin, not hard, just enough to get a reaction, to observe with secret delight the shiver that ran from the small of her back to her shoulders, the shiver she couldn't quite hide.

When he heard the hitch in her breath, he struggled to keep himself from leaning in and tasting her lips, sliding his tongue across the line of her mouth, inside –

Patience.

She wouldn't let him. Not yet.

"Castle," she hissed, as if to prove his point. But even in that pissed-off, scary tone she was trying to pull off, he thought he could hear a hint of. . .encouragement.

Of course, his too-eager brain might have been playing tricks on him.

But he chose to believe different.

"Just helping you rub some of that lotion in, Kate," he pointed out in the most innocent voice he could muster, managing to sound rather nonchalant, even with his heart pounding in his ears. "At Chez Castle, we take a special interest in our guest's well-being."

He let her interpret that sentence the way she wanted, let the words twist and turn in her mind until the lightest hint of red colored her cheeks (well, that might also have been in response to the sly smile now curling his lips).

In the meantime, his hand slid along the curve of her calf, wrapped around the sharp bones of her slender ankle, massaged gently before trailing his way back up, to the appealing sensitivity of her knee.

Her calf muscle flexed and tensed, strong and beautiful, leaving him a little breathless. When he glanced up at her again, he found her eyes almost shut, her lashes throwing dark shadows on her cheeks, her lips parted.

She was gripping the sink, her knuckles white.

Not such a tease now, was she?

Just. . .beautiful.

He watched in wonder as she breathed irregularly, as she reacted to his slightest touch. He had spent hours (every hour since the day they met, if he was honest) wondering how he could touch her and make her tremble. And now. . .

He ran one finger up her arm, watching the gasp run through her body as he lightly traced the dip in her collarbone, the silky warm skin so perfect under his fingertips, brushing her throat before pulling back. He could see her pulse. Her heart was racing.

She dropped her leg, and without thinking about it, he maneuvered closer, trapping her against the sink. He felt the slight bump as she hit the counter, her hands steadying herself on the edge. She swallowed, and he realized he was staring at her mouth. Her soft, warm, red mouth, open and so inviting. And the way her chest moved when she breathed, quick and erratic and lifting towards him, as if invitation. He took a step closer, seeing her eyes flutter a little, feeling the hard, still-damp lines of her body just barely touching his, his hands aching to roam over every inch of skin. He wanted her. He wanted her right now. Like this. Pressed against him, trembling, right here.

"Castle– "

The bite had left her voice. Now it was breathy. Shaky.

He leaned closer, his face so close he could feel the heat humming on her skin, smell her, see the haze of desire clouding her eyes. Her breath washed over his face, hot and rapid and so much better than *anything* he could ever, ever write.

"What do you want, Kate?" he whispered, his mouth so close to hers, hovering, ready. It was way too late to stop now.

He'd barely finished the words before she closed the distance between them and _Oh God_ she was kissing him.

Her touch was tentative, a jolt of awareness flooding him as she breathed into his mouth, hesitating, her lips parted but not seeking, brushes of kisses, light and loose, as if waiting. For him or for good sense? He dragged his fingers up the line of her throat, felt her swallow hard, and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck to pull her against him, firm, tight, confident.

Her lips broke from his; she stared at him. He slid his other hand up the towel, brushed the top of her thigh with his thumb, found her hipbone, traced inward to see her eyes flutter closed, then snap open. She gasped and her chest pushed into him, too good, warm and damp, the coiled spring of his need tightening as his hands tightened around her as well.

He took her mouth again, pushed his tongue past her lips to delve into that hot, alive, uncharted darkness. She pushed back, brought her hands to his chest, fingers quick and hard, and he felt his back hit the wall, Kate pressed against him.

The towel clung tenaciously to her frame and he wanted it off, wanted his hands on her hot skin, wanted to drag his fingers up her spine, curl around the curve of her ribs, find her hard-beating heart.

"You," she said throatily, her mouth breaking from his. She nibbled at his adam's apple and moved across his throat to his jaw, took his earlobe between her teeth. "I want you."

He thought he might collapse – he had waited so long, dreamed so many times of hearing her say that. The words in themselves were surreal, too good, like the rich scent of amazing coffee that you can't drink yet because it's burning hot and would scorch your throat.

He fused his lips with hers, unable to help himself, to think of a better way of expressing the overwhelming tightness in his chest. She was so open, so responsive against him, her tongue firm and intent as it moved along the edge of his mouth.

Just the feel of it made him dizzy.

He flipped them so that he was the one pressing her into the wall, swallowed the moan she let out when her naked shoulders met the cold tile, absorbed the shiver that shook her slim frame.

Oh God, the way her chest heaved under the towel, the soft swell of her breasts – he dipped his head to reach the silky skin of her neck, lick at her collarbone, that sensitive place where his hand had been.

"Castle," she whispered, urgent, breathless, as her body strained towards his. This time he had no doubt about the encouragement in her voice, rimmed with rough, appealing need.

His lips wandered towards the top of the towel; he paused as he got to that mesmerizing line, the too-white cotton against the warm, delicate porcelain of her skin.

He looked up at her, a question in his eyes, because this was it – it was the last chance, the last stop. There was no getting off the bus after this.

She stared back, dark and divine and determined. He gasped when she rocked her hips against his knee (he didn't remember sliding a leg between hers, but that had clearly been an *amazing* idea) and she moistened her lips, her eyes feral.

"Take it off."


	2. Chapter 2: The Limo

Chapter Two: The Limo

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><p>"A limo, Castle? A little pretentious, isn't it?"<p>

Even through the phone, he could hear the mild amusement in her voice. "It's a comp. Black Pawn really, really likes me. The Agatha Christie Award is great press for them too. So what time should I pick you up?"

He heard a rustle, something like paper shuffling in the background. She'd been organizing her already-tidy desk when he'd left. Though she'd assured him she was on her way home soon, and would have time to dress for the awards ceremony at the Waldorf. "Uh – I don't know." She sounded distracted.

"7:30 it is."

"Fine." She hung up without further comment, and Castle sighed and tossed his phone onto the bed, reaching into his closet.

Time to suit up.

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><p>As he'd promised, the limo pulled up in front of her building at 7:28. And of course, she was waiting for him, answering the door within seconds. What he wasn't prepared for, though, was the dress.<p>

It took him a few tries to clear his throat.

"Wow."

Red. He'd always thought red looked good on her, especially after that dress he had bought her for the MADT charity (he had had more fun shopping for Kate than he ever had with any of his ex-wives).

But this – this brought his fondness for red to a whole new level.

Red had just become his new favorite color.

The shape of the dress he found fairly uninspiring, a strapless sheath, basically, although really, anything on her that showed this much leg was an instant favorite, certain to show up in his dreams and fantasies. And then Beckett - Kate - gave him an alluring smile and slowly turned around, offering him a view of the back.

The deep-V, naked back.

His breath caught in his throat; his fingers itched to touch. Any of it.

That dresss. Oh. Wow.

Silk, it clung loosely to her gorgeous form, and mirrors were sewn into the material, catching the light, dazzling his eyes. High heels (red, of course) made her legs seem even longer, endless, and her hair tumbled freely across her shoulders.

The soft, shiny curls called to his hands.

She was looking at him from under her dark lashes, her eyes a little shy behind the flirtation, and he leaned in without thinking, brushing his lips to her cheek.

His hand curled around her waist, delighted in the smoothness of the dress and, underneath, in the warmth of Kate's skin.

"You look amazing," he breathed against her ear.

"See?" she whispered back. "I can pick out my own clothes just fine."

"Damn fine," he growled.

She grabbed a clutch from the entry table and pushed him out the door. He shuffled back, trapping her hand against his chest, letting her feel how his heart pounded.

Kate lifted her eyes to his, her fingers curling in his starched tuxedo shirt before letting go. He realized his hand was still at her waist only when she turned to lock her door. His fingers met flesh, amazing, wonderful skin; he wanted to tell her to forget the award, forget going out, open the door again and let him show her how good they were together.

Instead he leaned in too close. "You. For all the awards."

That earned him a half-hearted eyeroll. "Come on, Castle. Big, fancy car waiting for the big, fancy author."

He sighed and followed her out, ostensibly to be polite and hold the front door but also because this way he could stare openly at her, committing to memory the way her hips moved when she walked, the way her legs flashed pale and appealing in the darkness, all that bare skin like an invitation he wanted to RSVP.

And though there was absolutely no need, he put his hand to her back to guide her. He hoped she'd think it was chivalry. Because there was so little material between his eyes and her skin tonight, he just couldn't resist her.

As his fingers slid easily over the smooth plane of her back, she shot him an arch, coy little look that said not only _I know _exactly_ what you're doing_, but also _We both know you want me_.

He climbed into the limo after her and wondered if he was going to survive the evening. Correction: if he was going to survive Kate Beckett in a dress that said _I dare you._

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><p>She fastened her seat belt (he didn't think he had ever seen anyone actually put on their seat belts in a limo) and adjusted it so that it rested right between her breasts. Tantalizing.<p>

He swallowed, tore his eyes away from her chest to meet her gaze.

She was smirking.

"What about _your_ seat belt, Castle?" She pointed out with a lovely raise of her eyebrow, as the car started moving and smoothly found a way into traffic.

Rick grinned, leaned forward until he brushed her shoulder, his lips ghosting the white shell of her ear.

"Too far away," he whispered. "I'd rather risk my life and be near you."

She huffed a laugh, gave him a mocking look. _Cheesy_, _Castle, _her eyes said without needing any help from her mouth. But then they flickered to his lips, darkening even in the half-light, and mischief spread across her face.

"So," she murmured, humming around the vowel, "It's my responsibility to keep you safe?"

"Isn't it always?" He wanted to grin back, but he was mesmerized by the play of her eyes in the darkness, the way she watched him, a hunter, then glanced to his mouth as if equally entranced, the hunted. "And you do such a fine job of it."

"Then maybe you should sit on your side of the limo, Castle."

"That wouldn't be safe," he said solemnly, shaking his head. He lifted a hand to her knee, let his fingers trail the outside, skin on skin. He'd been thinking about tonight since. . .the first time he'd ever met her?

"Why not?"

Her voice was steady, but her skin was hot, her eyes slipping shut. He loved the sweep of her lashes to her cheek, loved what it meant. He almost had her.

"If I'm on my side, where will you be?" He brushed a finger down her nose, watched those lashes shiver. "Strapless?"

"On-on my side," she stuttered, and opened her eyes on a curse, glaring at him. He narrowed his eyes, leaned in again to brush his lips against her ear.

"I don't think so, Kate," he said softly.

He watched, fascinated, as the slight tremor ran through her, the delicate muscles in her throat rippling as she swallowed. The delicate blush spreading over her cheeks told him she knew _exactly_ what he was thinking.

"Where do_ you_ think I should be, Castle?"

Ah. That was more like it. Sex-kitten-in-a-red-dress Beckett wasn't supposed to end up off-balanced. He liked her like this: arched eyebrows, a sideways glance, a smirk playing over her lips like she was trying to decide how close she'd let him get.

He'd help her make up her mind.

The hand he had trailed along her knee had stopped moving around the time she'd taken his breath away with that look; he rededicated himself to her seduction, let his fingers wander a little higher, brushing her thigh, sliding under the hem of the dress, so slow, almost hesitant.

He didn't miss her subtle response, the light arching of her back against the seat of the limo, the soundless sigh falling from her parted lips.

Ah, Kate.

"Where do I think you should be?" He repeated her question, amusement infusing his voice, his eyes fixed on her bottom lip, the way her pearled teeth sank into it. "I think I've made that pretty clear, Kate. I think you should be in my bed."

As if to accompany his words, his hand grew more confident, his touch firmer against the smooth skin of her inside thigh. Demanding.

She laughed a little, but it lacked conviction, lacked strength. All he could hear was the breathlessness of it.

"I don't see any bed here, Castle," she challenged, her eyes half-closed and not looking at him. Her hands were flat on the limo's seat, as if glued there by some invisible magic.

"No?"

His fingers left her leg, sliding to the belt buckle and pressing it open; it came undone with a click that sent a shiver through her body. He was close enough to feel it.

"Well, in that case, I think the closest thing to my bed would be my limo. What do you think, Kate?"

He let out her name in a murmur, as caressing as a word could be.

He could see her swallow hard again, her chest rising and falling rapidly. A grin curled his lips, and his visceral approval of her arousal only made her narrow her eyes at him, press her lips together.

But the fact that she couldn't even respond was answer enough.

Castle slid his hand along her thigh, pulled her leg up onto the seat, dragged it across his lap. Her body turned as if against her will; she came to his chest, her hand against the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, her eyes on his mouth.

He felt her hips rise as he feathered his thumb along the inside of her knee, skimming the hem of her dress. He wrapped his other arm at her back, spread his hand wide across the lovely, cool skin there, traced the contours of her ribs.

She pushed forward and took his mouth. Her teeth grazed his lip, her tongue stroked against his, racing to the finish line, impatient as always.

He held on, his hand curling around her thigh, his thumb just under her dress, circling the sensitive skin, around and around, slowly, content to be the one holding back, making her frantic.

At just the right moment, he slid his hand up her back and grabbed the nape of her neck, angled her to meet his mouth, firm and insistent and unmistakeable.

She moaned into his mouth, body arching into his, the press of her hips like a brand. He dug his fingers into her neck, feeling the unsteady pulse as she bent under him, her hand on his shoulder flexing, fisting in the lapel of his jacket.

"Castle – " His name left her lips breathlessly as she broke away, started sucking at his earlobe, sending a shudder through his body.

With his momentary distraction, she nibbled his ear and hummed, firmly in control again. His hand fisted in her hair, couldn't find the strength to make her lips move away from that spot. "You like the dress?"

"Oh yeah." He loved this dress. She was barely _in_ the dress right now and the only thing that could possibly be better was getting her _out_ of it. "New favorite color, Kate. What color is it again?"

She laughed, rich and alluring, and slid her knee up as if she were about to straddle his waist. His heart kicked up, he gripped her hipbone-

The rattle of a fist on the window made him gasp. Like a girl. And Kate was suddenly missing, way over there, on the other side, his lips were burning, his ear was wet-

The door swung open; the driver put a hand in to help Kate out of the limo. She gave him a sultry look, which didn't help things, and stepped out.

Castle waved the driver off.

He needed some time.


	3. Chapter 3: The Awards Ceremony

Chapter Three: **The Awards Ceremony**

by **Sandiane Carter** (apparently, she couldn't get the limo scene out of her head)

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><p>Kate stands at the back of the room as Castle gives his speech, her shoulders resting against the wall, a glass of wine in her hand. It was her condition when she gave in to his invitation (or plea, or supplication, or blackmail – all those words describe his persistence quite accurately).<p>

She'd be there, but only if he didn't make a big deal of it, didn't make her stand in the front, turn the spotlights on her.

He agreed.

And she doesn't regret it now, as she listens to his deep, expressive voice, lets the words wash over her, sounds and meaning merging into this warm, enchanting melody that winds around her body, seeps into her bones. Melts them.

He's talking about the 12th, about the things he's learned, the things he's learned with *her*, and his eyes seek hers all the way across the room, hold them.

"Detective Kate Beckett is a world of contradictions," he says, a smile tugging at his lips, and she doesn't even mind that most people have turned to look at her. She doesn't see them. Only him.

"She makes me feel like my words aren't good enough; and yet she also makes me want to keep trying, and trying again, until I get it right. There's something about her, something about Nikki Heat. Women who make you want to be better. Who demand it, without ever saying the words."

His gaze is tender, so full of the things he has and hasn't said yet, and she can barely breathe.

Then he breaks contact, looks at his crowd again, a mixture of interested or sceptical journalists, of adoring young authors and experienced publishers. Oh, he knows how to do this. And yet the charm works on her.

"I killed Derrick Storm on a whim. Because I was bored, because I didn't want to play with him anymore. My toy wasn't good enough. Hopefully, I've grown a little since then."

He pauses, waits for the laughter to die off. Kate isn't laughing; she is listening with rapt attention, hanging on to his every word.

"But I can't bring myself to regret that decision, because if I hadn't killed him, well, maybe I would never have crossed Detective Beckett's path. Or maybe I would have, but too briefly for Nikki Heat to come to life. And Nikki, just like Kate, has changed my life in so many ways. Together, they've made me a better writer – a better man. So please, give it up for Nikki Heat, and her real-life inspiration, Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD."

He gestures at her, his smile proud and awed at the same time, and she feels her lips curve responsively, even as the photographs turn to her, as the flashes make her close her eyes for an instant.

She smiles politely, murmurs her thanks all around, and it doesn't take long for the press to give their attention back to Castle. They ask him about his plans, ask for a peek into the next Nikki Heat, or at least some juicy spoiler; they ask whom he is going to support for the next Mayor.

He answers every inquiry graciously, smlles and laughs, poses for the camera, until – of course – a journalist decides to get a little more personal.

The reporter is a man in his mid-thirties, average-looking, with narrow eyes that give him the look of a weasel. "So, Rick," he says slowly, pretending to look at his notes.

Kate tenses a little. She doesn't like when people call him Rick without having earned it. Even though she knows that Castle himself tells everyone to do just that about a minute after meeting them.

"You talk a lot about your muse, Kate Beckett."

And he used the word muse. Is that guy deliberately trying to piss her off?

"It's quite clear that you respect and admire her very much. But is there more to that professional relationship than meets the eye? Towards the end of your speech, you called her Kate, which, if I'm not mistaken, you never did before. Are we allowed to conclude that a personal relationship, of a romantic nature, has developed between the two of you?"

The question in itself is not that bad, and it's not like it's a new one. But the vicious tone of the journalist, the way he carefully puts an ironic stress on the words _respect, admire_, and _romantic_ – they prickle her skin. And she can tell Rick is not happy.

But he keeps his cool, keeps his voice relaxed, even though she can tell it costs him.

"You're right," he tells the guy, sounding almost friendly. The whole room gasps, holding their breaths. "I do admire Kate Beckett, and respect her, more than I've ever respected anyone. Apart maybe from my mother."

People laugh, but Rick goes on this time, silences them.

"And for that exact reason, I will not answer your question, because I think Detective Beckett is entitled to her privacy, and should not suffer the consequences of Nikki Heat's success. She did not choose to be the inspiration for my character, and as a writer, I take full responsibility for the world I've created. So I would extremely grateful –" he gives them all a pointed look – "if the press could refrain from treating Kate Beckett like a movie star or a brainless bimbo. She's a cop, trying to do her job as best as she can. Please, respect that. Thank you; no more questions."

He disappears beside the curtain, swallowed by the dark green velvet, and Kate keeps staring after him, her eyes searching, hungry. Her legs are barely holding her up; she steps back, leans into the wall again.

That man.

Her heart is wild, hammering furiously inside her chest. She can't think.

The only thing she sees is the fire burning in his blue eyes when he said, _Please respect that_.

She knows – she's known for a while – that Castle has done his best over the years to keep her out of the spotlight. But there's a difference, a colossal difference, between knowing it and hearing him fervently plead for her tranquillity.

"I'll give you that; he knows how to do his job."

Kate startles; the wine glass swings in her hand, comes very near to crashing on the ground.

Paula. Of course.

The detective nods, only replies, "He does."

Her eyes travel to the podium where Castle stood minutes ago; he still hasn't come back into the room. Expectation is making her a little breathless, but unlike that time when she stood in line for three hours, there's nothing fan-girly to it.

"And he did a fine job of avoiding that last question," Paula adds, her eyes intent on Kate. Fishing for information.

But Beckett is in control again; she gives the woman a close-lipped smile, and no other element of answer.

She might have agreed to come to this award thing, but she hasn't signed any paper saying she has to talk to Paula. She turns her back on the woman, trying to find someone with a friendlier look. Shouldn't be hard to look nicer than a shark.

A shark with pointed teeth. And terrible fashion taste.

But Paula's hand on her forearm stops her, a little too insistent. Kate slowly lowers her eyes that that hand, with the red-painted nails, the shiny ring, and Paula lets go.

"You won't be able to hide forever, you know," she warns, in what must be a warm voice for the agent.

"Thank you for the warning. Next time I need someone to state the obvious for me, I'll remember to give you a call."

On that note, Kate strides off, refusing to let the woman get to her. Not when Castle's beautiful words are still caressing her skin, still squeezing her heart tight.

She needs to be alone with him.

There's no way she can *tell* him how it made her feel, how her speech moved her, jostled things in her chest, but… But she might be able to show him.

They can't leave now, of course. Castle has to make small talk to these people, charm them into buying his books and writing positive reviews. They have to stay. At least an hour. Possibly more.

Damn.

Kate makes a quick assessment of her surroundings, the room full of people, the hallway with a security guard and the coat check, the double doors that lead to the kitchens. Waiters are coming in and out faster than she can count.

Glancing back at the curtain Castle vanished behind, she bites her lip, wondering if she could possibly join him backstage. That's the moment her partner chooses to reappear, deep in conversation with an elderly woman who helped organize the ceremony tonight, and Kate sighs.

There goes that idea.

Well.

There *is* still the bathroom, right?

Oh God.

No. Kate. Seriously.

Is she _really_ thinking about this? Hooking up with Castle in the bathroom of a crowded reception where he's just been handed an award for his writing?

Yup. She is. And actually considering it, too. The little hallway that leads to both bathrooms, men and ladies, is quite deserted at the moment. She directs her steps towards it before she can change her mind, glances back over her shoulder.

Her eyes find him immediately; his whole face lights up, his blue gaze warming at the sight of her.

The needs coils tighter in her belly.

She ignores the little voice that says, _really, Kate, can't just wait until you get home_, and nods slightly to the women's bathroom. Then to him.

His eyes widen imperceptibly; he got her meaning. Good. She doesn't linger, but moves confidently to the women's bathroom, and closes the door after her.

She props herself against the nearest wall, rests her head to it. And waits.

* * *

><p>Castle's heart is hammering, his mind torn between disbelief and arousal. He's half-convinced that he got her wrong, that she can't possibly have been meaning what he thinks (wants to think?).<p>

Except. That look in her eyes.

A dark, dark look, with something like adoration in it.

Adoration?

He's not sure what he's done to deserve that look, but hell, his body doesn't really care about that. His body just reacts to Kate like it always has.

Damn it.

It takes him a couple minutes before he manages to ditch the (otherwise lovely) woman who organized the reception, and then he has to dodge people and wave and smile, point at the bathroom door and promise he'll be back in a second.

The funny thing is, he's pretty sure that once he's gone, no one will come looking after him. He's long used to the shallowness of that world.

But the woman he's making his way to – that woman is anything but shallow.

Kate.

His throat dries, closes up, and all it takes is her name. Stupid, stupid book party. They could be at home right now, in his bed, or – even better! – in his shower. Water running along the lines of Kate's body, following the soft curves, dripping…

Okay, stop. Stop. He still has work to do.

And yet, he's sliding into the women's bathroom after casting a look around, checking that no one's watching. Richard Castle, awarded author. This…totally goes against that stuff he's said in his speech, doesn't it?

That line about being a grown-up.

Whatever.

No one who's ever taken a good look at Kate Beckett could blame him.

Especially with the way she looks tonight, with that red silk dress that clings to her body in an absolutely sinful manner, hinting at curves and showing off skin (oh, just thinking of the dress makes him want to run his fingers along her naked back).

He closes the door to the bathroom and she's there, looking at him, so very close. He can see her chest rise and fall, smell her skin, sweet and fruity (some perfume that she only wears on rare occasions). His fingers burn with the desire to map, touch, press.

But something holds him back; something in her eyes that speaks of more, more than just desire or lust. More.

He doesn't know what 'more' is, but he wants to. He wants to very badly. So he lets her come to him.

She does come, her moves slow and purposeful, seamless. A feline on a hunt. He's backed against the door, and the last rational cells in his brain approve of this, of blocking out any possible intruder. And then they flicker out.

Kate's eyes are wide and green and dark; her hands come up to the lapels of his jacket, hold on tight as if she needs an anchor. Or something to pull him into her? She doesn't need any pull. She has him.

She looks… She looks like she's trying to gather herself, put the pieces back together. Struggling. What was it that undid her like that? The journalist's question? He can't believe that – Kate's heard much worse. So much worse.

"Castle," she finally whispers, licking her lips. He wants to lick them too.

"Yes?"

He has to keep his body from jerking towards her, her so-soft voice, the deep well of her eyes. The way she affects him – it's tragic. And amazing. But mostly tragic.

Especially for that grown-up thing he's trying to get going.

"That was a…nice speech," she purrs (he's not kidding. She's purring. No other word for it).

Something's wrong with him; air is not getting to his lungs like it's supposed to.

"Yeah?" He asks. Okay, squeaks.

She doesn't even laugh at him. Doesn't even acknowledge how very unmanly he's being. That's when he realizes how much this means to her. She's focused and unrelenting, intent on her goal.

He hopes her goal is *him*.

"Yeah," she repeats on an exhale, her eyes on his as she slowly leans in, closer, until her lips meet his neck, brush his adam's apple. His eyes slide shut with his permission.

"Really –" she stops to kiss his skin – "really" – her teeth graze his collarbone, and he trembles like a girl – "Really nice," she finishes, and then she takes his mouth and oh god, he thought she would never get there.

He parts his lips, impatient, eager, but Kate moves away, her mouth curved into a smile. She's not teasing, not exactly – although she does seem pleased at his reaction.

She wants to do this her way.

Aaah, she's going to kill him.

Fine. Fine.

He grabs her forearms, drawing her back into him, relishing the proximity of her heaving chest, but he doesn't move to kiss her. She's the one in charge.

He gets a bright smile for his efforts, a smile that blinds him a little, sends tingling joy to his toes.

Anything.

He'll do anything, to have her smile at him like that.

She wants speeches? He'll make speeches. Speeches every day. No problem. If that's what turns her on, then by God, he'll work on his speeches day and night, take advice from experts, sharpen his skills with every tool at his disposal.

Kate's lips are moving along his neck, up to his ear, and when she traces the lobe with her tongue before catching it between her teeth, an unbidden moan rolls free.

Oh well. He might as well abdicate all manliness for tonight, uh?

Her hands are poised against his chest, flat and almost vibrating with his pounding heart, but she moves them to his sides (he shivers) and uses the now-free space to press her body to his.

Warm lips and round breasts and jutting hips, the whole thing. He's way past the use of words now. That's it – he cannot help himself anymore. His hand finds her throat, her chin, angling her just the way he wants her; and then he dives into her, their breaths mingling, their tongues coming together at last.

He kisses her deep, a little rough, because she's got him all worked up and it's time that she get some of her own medicine. Take that, Kate Beckett, he thinks as he curls his fingers at her neck, threads them into her hair, demanding.

And he flips them over, pushing her into the bathroom door, resting a knee against it to hold her up (her legs seem a little…wobbly). Kate gasps and then lets out this happy sigh, the "I want more" sigh, the one that drives him downright crazy.

His hands reach at her back for a way to get this dress *off*, off the divine, scrumptious line of her body, but he can't find anything and loses patience, finds the hem of the dress instead, rolls it up on her thighs –

And then something strange happens, like Kate's body is pushed into his (he hasn't got anything to say against it, but it does feel like someone's pushing her from behind). She hisses at the sensation and her body tenses, so tight against him that he can't think, can't think.

But it happens again.

Kate lets out a small, quiet sound, almost like a sob, and he suddenly realizes exactly how close she is, the control she must exert on her body to keep it from breaking down, shattering against him.

He wants nothing more than for her body to –

Oh, fuck. Clarity floods his brain, sudden and unwanted, unwelcome. The bathroom door.

Someone's trying to open the bathroom door. He curses under his breath, and in that same second a woman's voice says on the other side of the door, "Is someone in there?"

Oooh, the reception. Oh no. Oh God.

He pushes himself off Kate, meets her horror-struck eyes. Okay. Okay.

He needs to think, to find a way out of this. Quick.

At least Kate seems capable of standing on her own. He steps back, slides into one of the toilets and locks the door. She can do the rest.

He hears her smooth her dress, wipe her mouth on her hand, and then the door creeks open.

"I'm sorry," she says with enough confidence for the throaty quality of her voice to go unnoticed. (Well, except by him, of course). "I was leaning on the door to fix my shoe – something wrong with the heel – and I lost my balance and collapsed against the door when you pushed. Just, stupid, you know."

Wow. He's impressed at how good her story is. Simple, believable. Nice job, Beckett.

There's a silence during which he imagines the woman staring suspiciously at Kate, and Kate directing her most innocent face back at her. Out of caution, Castle gathers his feet and puts them up, in case Mysterious Woman decides to check that Beckett really was alone.

You never know.


	4. Chapter 4: The Old Haunt

**BSB: The Old Haunt**

* * *

><p>Kate pauses on the step down into the Old Haunt, unconsciously fingering the top button of her dress shirt. Castle's text only said it was urgent, he needed her-<p>

She gulps and glances at her phone again, tries to summon the stoicism necessary to get through this unscathed. It's late, and it's been a long day, and she's tired, but she always seems to come when he calls.

Sometimes. . .in more ways than one.

Lately.

She jogs down the steps, realizes her fingers are pressed against the bare skin of her chest.

Apparently, she's popped a few buttons.

Trying to ignore the fact that she's undressing herself on her way to meet Castle – the thought is disturbing – she hastily re-does a button and scans her surroundings as she steps inside the bar.

"Castle?" She doesn't see him. The lights are off; she reaches for the light switch near the door to illuminate the old bar, but though she flicks the switch a few times, nothing happens. The lights don't come on.

Okay. Weird.

Isn't the bar supposed to be open? Or did she miss the 'Closed' sign on the door? She tries the switch one last time, then gives up on it and feels for the wall. She's just going to have to make her way in the dark, it seems.

Maybe that's Castle's plan. His idea of a fun night. _Hey, let's have Kate come over and turn the lights off so we can play hide and seek._ She can't imagine what the point to that would be. Unless he's hiding somewhere and waiting to scare her? Or crouching somewhere close until she accidentally gropes him in the dark?

Her hand stills on the wall - that would be like him - and she listens carefully. She can't hear anything; just her own steady breathing, and the creaks of old wood under her heels. Her eyes are adjusting to the lack of light, and nothing seems to be moving either.

"Castle?" She calls again.

No answer. Is he even *here*?

She sighs, resumes her way forward, putting one foot in front of the other very slowly. In case he's intending to trip her up. You never know with Castle.

When she feels the brush against her neck, soft, like spiderwebs, she doesn't even flinch.

Rolling her eyes, even though he can't see her expression in the darkness, she reaches back for those fingers and twists. Hard.

The sound of yelping and knees crashing to the floor brings a smile to her face.

"You do know I'm packing heat, right Castle?"

A whimper. She's still got a hold of his fingers, lets go only long enough to grab his wrist, just to make sure it really is him. Same broad hands, smooth fingertips, the bump where the base of his thumb meets his palm. The jut of his bones under his wrist.

She'd know his hand anywhere.

"Do you promise to stop trying to scare me?" She hears a mumble and squeezes harder, earning another puppy-like yelp.

"All right! I promise!"

She lets go, hears him shuffle back to his feet, and seconds later the lights come on, throwing smoky golden half-light over the dark wood counter, the old booths with the all the pictures, the uneven floor. And a penitent-looking Castle, rubbing his sore hand and pouting dramatically.

"You're no fun, Beckett."

"Thank you." She folds her arms, suddenly curious. "So explain to me the thought you put into this. You dragged me all the way to this bar, shut off the lights, and lay in wait here, why? Just to scare me?"

"Well - yes." He looks a little guilty. "But when you say it like that, it just sounds childish."

She sighs heavily. "Honestly, Castle, this is disappointing even for you."

He seems to take that as a challenge, his eyes light up, playful, mock-indignant, laughing, a little dangerous.

She knows that look. He's not backing down.

His mouth twists into a little smile. "Disappointed? Were you hoping I was going to lure you down here for some kind of illicit sexual deviance, Detective?"

Some kind of *illicit sexual deviance*? Is he _serious_? She opens her mouth to let loose with a sharp, biting answer, but before anything comes out the lights flicker, once, twice, and out. They're standing in the dark again.

Kate waits a second, hoping that the lights will miraculously come back on, but nothing happens and she can't help a laugh.

"Castle, really? The _oh no, the lights went out_ scenario? Couldn't you find anything *less* original?"

"That...wasn't me?" He answers in a puzzled voice. He sounds like he's moving closer; Kate steps back out of caution.

She suddenly remembers the light switch, somewhere on her right, close by. If Castle's telling the truth and he really hasn't orchestrated the whole thing, maybe there's just something wrong with the switch. She takes a step in that direction, with a little too much confidence considering that the bar has gone from lit up to dark in about a second, and that she sees next to nothing.

Her knee hits something hard (bone?) and another yelp tears through the darkness, because clearly Castle has had the exact same idea. His hand lands heavily on her shoulder - for balance, she guesses - but it only knocks her off-balance and sends her smack into him, tripping over a table and chairs on her way.

They stumble gracelessly to the floor together, Castle grunting and Kate landing on top of him. She goes very still, trying to *not* think of whatever parts of him she may or may not be touching.

Kate moves her hand to the floor, meets flesh instead.

He hisses and it's not in pain.

Flustered, cursing the darkness, she shifts and tries to get her feet under her, lying practically on top of Castle. Her knees draw up and he jerks.

Castle's arms wrap around her, and he lets out a little breath. Not a squeal, not a moan, somewhere in between.

"Kate," he warns. "Best stay still."

"Let me go, Castle." She tries to wriggle out from his grip and gets a hand on the floor, leverages herself up, mashing their lower bodies together as she does. Entirely on accident.

Mostly.

No, completely an accident.

He's panting under her; she can see his head thrown back in her mind's eye. The jut of his adam's apple, the angle of his chin. She darts back down to him, where she thinks he'll be, presses her lips to his skin, unable to stop herself.

She almost can't believe she's doing this. It's not real. She's not stupid enough to be doing this. But though she can't see him at all, there's no mistaking the sharp breath he draws in, the way the skin of his throat is hot under her mouth, the sudden pressure as his hand grabs her arm, flexing involuntarily against her. She can feel the tension, the way every muscle in his body contracts, presses against her.

Oh no, not in the floor of his bar. Disgusting. What is she doing?

Flushing hotly – at least he can't see it - she scrambles up, not touching him in the process.

(Mostly.)

"Uh - sorry. Mouth slipped."

_My mouth slipped? Seriously?_

"Yeah. Yeah."

She swallows hard, because his voice is low, husky, and a little hungry. And she tries very hard not to imagine the look on his face right now.

"Um, Kate - you have your flashlight?"

She reaches for her belt instinctively, but sure enough, it's not there. "No. I was headed home. Didn't think to bring it." _Damn_ it. So she's stuck in pitch blackness with Castle.

"Well - there are still candles down in my office, and I think I saw matches. Further in the tunnels."

"Anything closer? That wouldn't require us to go down the stairs in the dark?"

"Uh. No? The circuit breaker's in my office too, so if we want to get the lights back..."

She groans mentally. Great. Now they're in an Indiana Jones movie. "Guess we don't have a choice, then. Great planning, by the way."

"Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly sorry, but she decides not to comment on it. For now.

"Which way?"

"Here." She hears him coming towards her - likely to find her, help lead her towards safety, her rational mind supplies - but then rational thought vanishes and her heart leaps into her throat when she suddenly feels his hand. Which lands firmly on her left breast, giving it a little squeeze. "_Castle! _That's _not_ my shoulder!"

"I wasn't - I mean. Right."

His hand drops. Reluctantly it seems. His fingers curl around her wrist, light and unassuming, and he starts to guide them towards the stairs going down to his office. He knows the place better than she does, of course; he doesn't need to feel around to direct his steps.

"Okay," he says, stopping in front of the stairs (or well, the darker pit that she assumes is the stairs). "I'll go first, and you follow me, yeah?"

He lets go of her arm, and disappointment flickers inside her. She stifles it firmly.

"Just don't break a leg, Castle," she warns. "I don't wanna have to carry you out of here."

He chuckles. "Your concern's touching, Beckett."

Halfway down the stairs, he stills without warning, and she almost bumps into him.

"Castle," she hisses, because she does *not* want to die from a stupid fall in the narrow stairs of the Old Haunt.

"I'm such an idiot," he exclaims, ruffling in his pockets and producing his phone with a contented hum. "Flashlight app," he says as he turns it on, points the light at Beckett.

She blinks against the blinding white, brings a hand up to shield her eyes. And then she narrows them at him.

"And you couldn't think of that _before_?"

"Hey, where is your bright idea, uh?"

She rolls her eyes. She's not about to tell him that she left her phone in the car. Yeah. Stupid.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he finishes a little smugly, before resuming his descent. The moment he hits the bottom step, his phone's flashlight goes out.

_Really_?

"Castle."

She doesn't need the light to go down the last three steps, but *he* needs to stop the childishness. Seriously.

"I…might have forgotten to charge my phone this morning?"

His voice is a mix of apologetic and amused, which she can't really blame him for, because the whole situation is teetering on the brink of ridiculous. In fact, nervous laughter bubbles up inside her, and she shakes her head at herself.

She steps forward, circling around the place where his voice comes from, and bumps into something in the darkness of his office, stumbles back. Castle, of course, ever solicitous, puts his hands on her again, trying to help her or something.

She sighs, knocks his hands away. "Candles, Castle. A light. Something."

"In the tunnels, Kate. I promise. Just. Stay right there, I'll open it up."

Kate presses her hands to her eyes, groans inwardly at herself and the way her body keeps responding to his voice in the darkness. She hears scuffling, a scrape of wood and brick, and then she feels the ghostly breath of air that comes from the open passageway.

She's not afraid. She just. . .doesn't like the darkness. Never has.

"Castle?"

"Looking."

She swallows and shifts a little closer to the sound of his voice. The darkness has grown so complete, so black, that her eyes strain through it, aching to see. A brush of dewy thread against her cheek makes her jerk back in surprise, but it's just a cobweb. She clears it off her face and drifts a little closer to where the passageway should be.

"Castle?" she calls out, and can hear it in her own voice. She hates herself.

"Kate. You afraid?"

"No."

"I think you protest too much-"

"I'm not afraid."

"It's okay to be a little scared, you know."

Damn him. Although his voice holds a note of teasing, it's mostly warm and gentle. Too warm. Tender.

She shivers, and it's not from the cold, not from the dark.

"I'm not scared, Castle," she assures, but instead of sounding confident and in control she sounds irritated and jumpy. Great.

"Okay," he says, conciliatory, as she hears him move. His voice resounds a little against the old stone, which means he's already in the tunnel somewhere.

She shuffles in after him, not exactly enthusiastic about waiting on her own in the pitch-dark office. Better to stay together, right? Close. Just in case.

The difference of temperature between the passageway and the comfortable room that she just left is greater than she expected; a chill runs through her and she wraps her arms around her waist, trying to trap the warmth inside.

"Kate?"

And of course Castle can hear her shudder. Nothing creepy about this, not at all.

"I'm here," she answers, the sounds of her voice bouncing off the walls, merging with the last echoes of his. It sends sparks of pleasure through her; she tries to ignore it, ignore the eagerness pulsating in her veins. "Did you find anything?"

"Think I've got – yeah, here. Candles. Now if I can just remember where I saw the matches – "

She hears his voice trail off, half-thinking out loud, his footsteps slowly making their way along the passage. Chill, damp air is curling over her skin, brushing her, wispy and slick on her face and she doesn't like it. She instinctively takes a tentative step towards him, her hearing acute in the blackness. His breathing is a little more rapid than usual.

And she realizes hers is too.

She hears him fumbling for matches, but it echoes strangely, bouncing against brick, sounds like it comes from all around her. Kate takes another tentative step into the darkness, trying to throw off her disquiet, and suddenly senses the large, warm body breathing beside her.

Close. So very close.

She closes her eyes, can practically see the outline of his frame against her eyelids, where his arms are (nearly wrapped around her as he searches the shelf), how his head is turned towards her. Like echolocation, a picture forming from the sounds, a picture of him.

"Kate," he breathes, and she feels it against her cheek. Warm, damp. Close.

Her chest clenches and her body sways, close to his, hovering, a phantasmic bridge connecting her to him, heat and energy making her skin shiver, the hair on her arms stand up. A groan sounds down the passageway, both ancient and primal, and she doesn't know if it's him, or her, or something else.

Kate gives in, turns her head, her lips brushing against his mouth, exactly where she thought, where she always knew he'd be. He doesn't reach for her, doesn't move, lets her lips trace a pattern against his, light and delicate, a ghost of a presence at his mouth.

It feels like he's given up on breathing altogether. Her mouth curves with a smile at the thought; she knows he can feel it.

"Kate?" He murmurs against her lips, shy and tentative and not at all like the Richard Castle she knows. She hums in response, puts one hand against his chest; his whole body shivers, head to toe. Is that all it takes?

"I found the matches," he whispers, and she can hear in his voice that he's suddenly wondering why he's even talking, can almost see that _what am I doing?_ look on his face.

The hand she splayed on his chest, as flat and close to his heart as possible, moves towards his shoulder, down his arm, brushing the bicep, the inside of his elbow, his forearm.

The soft gasp he lets out makes her feel powerful. Her fingers finally reach his, curled around the matchbox. She undoes them slowly, one by one, until the box falls to the floor with a dull thump.

"Oops," she says, unleashing some of her amusement into her voice. Some of her arousal, too (his lips are still brushing against hers, so warm and tempting). "Well. Looks like we might have to do without them, huh?"

"Uh." His voice is a little higher than usual, strangled. Her heart is pounding wildly, her blood racing, hot and quick. Because she's in control.

She lets her hand trace back up his arm, slowly, letting her fingernails scrape lightly against him, before tracing the muscles in his chest, her fingertips barely there, feeling his breath move shallowly through his body.

It's only then that he moves. She senses it before she's really aware, but then she feels his hand on her cheek. His palm opens warm and soft and gentle, and she leans into it without thinking, holding back a reaction as he starts to trace the line of her jaw. His thumb runs over the curve of her lower lip, her mouth opening without realizing it, entranced and pliant and willing.

Her hand curling neatly under his jaw, she stretches up, placing a delicate kiss just at the corner of his mouth, letting her lips linger, feeling his sudden deep breath, the way his hands come to her sides. "Kate – "

She kisses the spot again, sighing as his hands on her waist get tighter.

She kisses the spot one more time, the dimpled edge of his mouth, and in that split second, she feels the sudden hot tensing of his body against hers before he steps forward, driving her back against the wall, pinning her.

The brick digs into her shoulders, the flare of her tailbone; her breath rushes from her and into his kiss, his insistent, hungry kiss.

It's not enough, not nearly enough. Kate circles her arms around his waist and brings his hips against hers, feels the groan rattle up his chest and vibrate in her mouth. His tongue swipes against her teeth, strokes in, his hips mimicking the movement. All of him pushing against her, finding the hollow places where he fits.

She clutches at his shirt, tugs it free, slides her fingers to the skin at his back, the warm resistance of his taut muscles, the hard edge of his spine. His hips thrust against hers, bruising her pelvis, grinding her against the brick.

She can't tell if her eyes are open or closed, wild darkness pressing down on her vision, her body caged by this man.

"Castle," she growls, attacking the corner of his mouth with her teeth to regain leverage, needing a place to make a stand.

He pushes himself off her, just a fraction, just enough space for her to breathe. Or so she thinks; it soon appears that his main intention was not to allow oxygen into her lungs, but rather to slide a demanding hand along the back of her thigh, lift her knee up –

Oh, yes. She doesn't need more encouragement to wrap her leg around him, her ankle hooking around the back of his knee; it brings him so much closer, his body weighing into her, exactly where she wants it.

She has to break the kiss to lean her head back, let that delighted, breathless moan roll free; Castle doesn't let that distract him but assaults her neck instead, his tongue licking at her throbbing artery, teeth grazing, her body arching against him –

He jerks away from her suddenly, but her foot is firmly holding him into place and he falls back into her, their lower halves coming together and drawing a gasp from her.

"Castle –"

She seeks his lips blindly, meeting his collarbone and his adam's apple on the way there, writhing against him in a vain attempt to draw him closer, draw him into her – but Castle shifts, shivers with something that does *not* feel like arousal.

"Kate," he whispers, and she hears something in his voice that confuses her, makes her try to blink back the haze of desire. "Kate, I just felt something against my foot. . ."

"The – what?" She swallows. Tries to think about something other than making out with him. Keeps getting sidetracked. "Your foot?"

"Like something brushed it."

He sounds skittish, his hands clutching at her like she's a lifeline. Something brushing past his foot? Really? Was it really worth interrupting this?

She opens her mouth, but suddenly his whole body jerks and he lets out a high-pitched, girlish shriek, so close she flinches. "I think it's a rat."

Her whole body loosens. And as keyed up as her body is right now – and oh _God_ is she still in the mood to keep going and find out just how many ways their bodies _really_ fit together – the little scream she just heard is entirely too much, and she can't stop herself from laughing. "Castle. You're afraid of rats?"

"They're disgusting, and gross, and they bite, and one day they and their robot army will rise and take over the world, and can we _please_ continue this somewhere where they're not _on_ me?"

His voice goes high-pitched again, but obviously this time it's not arousal. He's still clinging to her.

_Apparently I get to be the hero_.

"Fine." She stoops, feeling around the clammy ground for the candles. "Where are the candles?"

"Eeek – ah. I don't know. Don't know where they went. Kate!"

"That wasn't a rat. That was my hand, Castle-"

"Oh." But his 'oh' is rather breathless.

Kate chuckles to herself and gropes around on the floor for those dumb candles, on her hands and knees, grimacing at the dirt getting on her expensive pants. "Did you drop them?"

"Probably," he squeaks.

"Again – me, Castle."

His breath rushes out, she can feel his hand at the top of her head and she realizes she's kneeling down right in front of him, searching blindly for candles, but their positions-

Great. She does *not* need that mental image. She grabs his leg to lean further out, not wanting to get separated in the dark and have him trip over her in his haste to-

Something large brushes past her hand and she jerks back, startled, breathless. Large, hairy, and warm. Alive. And it's really dark down here.

"Kate?"

"That was big," she breathes.

"So not funny, Kate Beckett."

"Not being funny."

He whimpers – actually whimpers – and his hand clenches around her hair, like he needs the physical reassurance of her presence. Of her protection. She wants to snort, but part of her is also aware that he _really_ is freaked out, and earlier when she was (slightly) uncomfortable because of the darkness, he didn't make fun of her.

So she probably shouldn't make fun of him now. Especially not if she wants to get back to their previous activities.

Which she does. She really, really does.

Her body is humming with disapproval at having been cheated this way, still trembling like it didn't get what it was promised and is now considering a general strike. Castle's fingers tangle in her hair, remind her of where *else* she wants them to be, how close his hips are and how she could –

Focus, Kate.

Just then, her hand lands on a wax stick, and she lets out a triumphant "Ha!".

"What? What?" Castle shrieks nervously, like he's on the brink of a heart attack.

Really, Castle.

"I found a candle," she says, very tempted to add a 'duh' at the end of this sentence.

"Oh. Oh, awesome. Let's go back then. Back to the office. Where it's _safe_," he hisses, his feet scuffling next to her.

"I'd be grateful if you could refrain from trampling me, Castle," she points out sarcastically as her fingers find a second candle. And a third. Ok, that's enough. She gets back on her feet, clutching his arm for balance (she tells herself).

"Aren't you supposed to be loving this?" She asks, trying to distract him because she is pretty sure she just felt an enormous rat running past her feet (well, she hopes it was a rat). "The whole, being stuck with me in a secret, deserted passageway, groping in the dark? Doesn't that thrill you a little?"

She's Kate Beckett, after all. She's not used to rats hogging her spotlight.

"Not when there are rats around, Beckett!" He exclaims, whiny and childish like only he can be. "Rats are – they are –"

"They and their robot army, yes, yes, I get it," she interrupts, rolling her eyes since he can't see her. "Okay, let's go back. Oh, wait. Matches. What did you do with the matches, Castle?"

"Me? *You* took them from me and dropped them on the floor somewhere," he answers, sounding vaguely accusatory.

"Don't remember you complaining about it," she retorts, crouching back down to feel for the matches. She was standing a step or two further, on the right –

There they are. She grabs them, sways a little, her balance upset by her sudden move. She puts her left hand on the floor to steady herself.

Except it's not the cold stone that she's expecting, but something warm and moving and hairy, and oh God, it's big. It's *huge*. She can't help a gasp, stumbles back onto her feet, up, away, quick –

The thing presses against her heel and she tumbles against Castle, grabbing for him - oh, not there, oops - collapsing into his shoulder and her scream strangled by his shirt. Thank goodness. Only one of them is allowed to be screaming down here. Her fingers clutch the fabric of his sleeve. (And if Kate is going to be screaming, it will be for much better, sexier reasons).

"Are you okay? Did it bite you?"

She tries to steady her breathing. His chest is heaving against her, his breath on her neck, and she seriously thinks he might hyperventilate. "Just startled me. I'm fine." He doesn't need to know it freaked the hell out of her too. Besides, she wants to get _out_ of here and somewhere where she can get back to the process of sucking his tongue down her throat.

Okay. Candles. Matches. Check.

She strikes a match, and it flares and burns fiercely, a quick burst of light that gleams through the darkness. She quickly lights a candle; Castle takes it, and she lights one for herself.

It's only then, light firmly in hand, that she finally looks at Castle and sees him. He's staring at her, eyes blazing, the flickering light over his face, questions in his eyes. And she can't help the sudden warm blush coming over her cheeks. It was one thing in complete darkness. But now she can see him. He can see her.

Now, when he touches her, she's going to see him do it, the intention in his eyes.

And she wants him to touch her. By candlelight. Flickering against his skin, creating shadows that tease her eyes, the-

"Beckett. Rats. Time for that later."

He nudges her forward, but she doesn't want to go.

She wants to suck on that spot at his jaw where the bristles are sparse, that spot that makes his eyes roll back. She wants to brush up against him, feel his need reach fever pitch, pluck him like a guitar string until he hums.

Her body refuses to go. Not when he's so close, when *she* was so close, and he dragged her out of her apartment late at night for this, _I need you_, and of course all she could think about were the places she needed him too, and now, _now_, he's going to act like a girl and run from a little-

Oh.

Whoa. *That* is a huge. . .huge rat.

Right past Castle's shoulder.

Watching them.

Not a bit afraid. Looks calculating, in fact.

"Oh, God," he whispers. "It's behind me, isn't it?"

"No?" She can't take her eyes off it. It's a mutant. It can't be normal, can't be. She swallows, watches the red shine of the thing's eyes.

And then, it comes for them.

"Oh, shit!" She yanks on Castle's shirt, hauling him back with her, twists around to run for the office, Castle hot on her heels.

"I told you!" he yells, crowding her on the stairs.

Yeah, yeah. "That thing doesn't need a robot army."

"Beckett. So not funny."

He slams the door shut behind them.

She shivers.

Forget the Old Haunt and its secret passageways. Beds are better.


	5. Chapter 5: The Pool Table

**BSB: The Pool Table**

* * *

><p>"You know what my place needs?"<p>

Beckett doesn't answer, turn, pause, or give any indication she's listening. Castle continues anyway.

"A billiards room. Old-school. Wood paneling, built-in bar, shelves for my trophies - "

"- you don't have any - " she mutters without looking up from her computer.

"Minor detail. Still. A good man-cave. A _classy_ man-cave."

She finishes typing whatever she's working on, sits back, and folds her arms. "As excited as I am to learn this deep-seated wish, Castle, is there a reason you decided to bring it up now, or was I just being too productive for you?"

"Well, since you're asking - " she rolls her eyes, because he knows perfectly well she really wasn't - "The pool tables at the Old Haunt have been re-finished, so they've been out for a while. Now that they're coming back in tomorrow, I've been practicing. And I daresay, Detective, I might be one of the finest players I know."

If that doesn't sound like a challenge, nothing will. Sure enough, her eyes flash with barely-concealed mischief.

"You're on."

* * *

><p>Beckett, even in her plaid shirt and dark wash jeans, even with her gun strapped to her side, looks sexy as hell inside the Old Haunt. After hours. With memories swirling around in his brain.<p>

Ew. Rats. Needless to say-

"So, did the King Rat die?" she asks, poking her finger into his side.

"A terrible death," he says with relish, narrowing his eyes at her.

"And the robot army?"

"Haven't heard a peep out of them. As well it should be. That pest control guy was crazy expensive."

She gives him a flicker of a smile and gestures to the pool tables that just arrived from the refinisher's, the felt so bright and clean and unmarked.

"Wanna go scuff it up, Castle?"

"Ladies first," he answers with a wiggle of his eyebrow and his most charming smile.

Kate eyes him suspiciously, as if he's trying to set a trap for her. He gives her the innocent look he's spent years perfecting, and in the end she takes his offer, grabs a billiard cue from the hanging rack with a small, satisfied grin.

He's suddenly very aware that he has absolutely no idea how good she might be at this. He knows how _very_ good she is at *other* things, of course, and that in turn gets him to picture a couple different, possible uses for a pool table, much more...

No. Stop. Win first, fantasize later, Rick.

Kate is finishing setting up the balls; obviously, she's done it before. Her hands are quick and sure, and he watches with a sense of dread.

But no. She can't possibly be better than him. Plus, he spent the last few nights practicing. He is *so* going to win this.

Still -

Maybe betting on the game's outcome isn't such a good idea after all.

"You wanna break?" Kate asks, and he meets her eyes, dark and poised and deadly.

He decides the best course of action is to show no fear. "I'd be honored."

She steps aside to let him approach his shot, and he eyes the table carefully, mentally noting the familiar angles. It's all vectors. Pool is pure math and physics. Pure logic. Predictable.

Until he glances back at her for a moment and sees her thumb absently rubbing the end of her cue stick as she watches him.

His mouth goes dry. Is she doing it on purpose?

She really, really needs to stop touching the stick like that. Right now. Please.

He drags his eyes away, desperate, and looks back at the table. Right. Pool. Vectors. Pure math.

"You gonna take that shot anytime soon, Castle?" He grits his teeth at the mild amusement he hears, the laughter coloring her words.

He leans in close, the table against his hips, and squints one eye to line up his shot. Then he remembers what she said about sighting on the gun range, and tries that angle instead.

Much better. Yeah. He can do this. No problem.

He cradles the stick with his right hand, slides it in and out, eyeing his target, back and forth to make sure he's got the rhythm-

A strangled noise from behind him breaks his concentration; he jerks up and turns.

Kate eyes are on him. Hungry. Devouring.

She's got the pool stick against her body, the long length of it running right between her legs, her breath erratic, fluttering.

Her grip on the stick makes his knees weak.

He grunts and turns his head away from her, closes his eyes so he can't see. Can't see. Not right now. Got something to prove. Line up the shot, Rick. Break.

Don't break. No, wait. Break the balls, just not-

No, not the balls. Break the pool balls and-

Arg. This was a terrible idea.

He makes the shot, but it's terrible because he's distracted and thinking about Kate's legs now, about how long and slim they are, and the way they cradle the pool stick, and how he would much rather have them wrapped around his hips, her body tight -

Yeah. The cue ball strikes the triangled balls with minimal force, not doing a whole lot of breaking. Stripes roll away, colors meander towards the far edge.

Castle groans in dismay, shuts his eyes again, and drops his head into his free hand. Tries not to listen to the voice in his head that says it would be much more interesting to get *Kate* breaking rather than a stupid triangle.

Oh, he's doomed. Already.

He's sort of expecting an ironic comment on her part (he deserves it, to be honest, because he's done nothing but brag about his superior abilities, and this is _ridiculous_, probably the worst shot in the history of pool playing) - but nothing comes.

After a minute, he lifts his head again, darts a glance towards his partner.

His throat closes up.

Kate is studying the mess he's made, eyes dark and intent on the balls, her long hair tumbling past her shoulders. She's bent forward so that she has the table at eye level, and that also means he gets an incomparable view of those gorgeous legs of hers - not to mention her magnificent ass.

The jeans she's wearing are tight; her heels lift her up, canted towards the table; in that position, she might as well be wearing nothing.

That's an idea. Kate Beckett naked on his pool table -

At _that, _he has to take a breath, physically step back, look away to collect himself. Because he's seconds away from pushing her down and showing her just exactly how sturdy the table is. And not that he doesn't want to - oh _God_ does he want to - but not -

"You okay there, Castle?"

He looks back to find her studying him. There's something in her eyes he can't quite figure out - dark, a little dangerous, but her face is serious, like she's thinking hard about something. Thinking hard. Really, really h-

_Shut up shut up shut up_.

"I - yeah. Just a bad shot." He plays it cool. Difficult (not _hard, _he tells himself sternly), considering the way she's still leaning over the table, but turned towards him now, is currently giving him an unobstructed view down the open collar of her shirt.

She straightens again, shrugging. "Happens to everyone." Why is she being charitable? She should be mocking him mercilessly. He's about to comment on it, but then her eyes narrow - does she know what he's thinking? - and he holds back a groan as she slides her hand slowly up her cue stick, achingly, painfully slowly, letting her fingers trail against the shaft -

He can't look away.

He needs to look away.

Her thumb curls over the tip of the stick and rubs, blue chalk dusting her fingers.

He can't breathe. And he needs his hands on her in the worst way.

"Kate."

"Mm?" she questions, turning her head away from the pool table and glancing at him.

"Get over here."

Her eyebrow raises, but - oh holy hell, she's obeying him - she walks over.

She stands in front of him, reaches out a finger and pushes on his chest. "Did you just order me around, Castle?"

His breath stutters and he glances down to her hand to watch those fingers trail up his shirt to his throat, a blue line of chalk.

No more of this. He's not willing to be teased today.

His hand shoots up, closes around her index finger just when it reaches the hollow of his throat. The briskness of his move seems to surprise her; Kate blinks, looks up from their joined hands to his face.

Darkness - desire - pools in her eyes.

God.

She's just so...

Yeah.

With his thumb, he wipes the blue chalk off her finger, firm and thorough. And then, when it's all gone, when he can see her pale, soft skin again, he leans in and takes her finger in his mouth.

He sinks his teeth into her knuckle, just hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to cause her to gasp; then he smoothes the spot with his tongue, drags his warm mouth along her index finger, slowly, slowly, until he feels her nail under his lips and finally releases her.

She groans, watching him through half-closed eyes, and her now-free hand curls at his neck, imperious, irresistible. Then she tugs, hard, and he jerks forward; their mouths collide.

His cue stick hits the floor with a clatter as he pulls her closer, his hands threading through her hair. Her lips part against his and lets out a low hum as his tongue slides into her mouth.

He leans forward, his body pressing against hers, the long line of her, and she takes a stumbling step backwards, the back of her thighs coming to rest against the pool table. Her hands fall beside her on the table's edge, steadying herself, and Castle pins her against it, crowding her legs with his own, feeling every breath that rocks her warm body against him.

It's too much. He needs more, all of her-

Castle grabs her hips and hoists her up over the lip of the pool table, watching her tumble back on her elbows, her hair brushing the green felt. He crowds closer, feels her calves at the back of his thighs.

Kate's hand reaches up, grabs hold of his shirt, and yanks him down on top of her. He catches himself, barely, uses his teeth against her throat in retaliation, feels her body writhe once under his.

Up on his elbows now, he scoots them back with a thrust of his hips. She cries out and lifts her body away from the felt, her startled eyes finding his-

"Burns-"

"Yeah, it does," he growls, getting a knee onto the table and raising up over her.

"Carpet burn, you idiot," she hisses and wraps her hand around his bicep, nails digging into his skin.

"Best kind, now scoot up unless you want another-"

She narrows her eyes at him, but lifts with her feet, pressing herself fully into him as she shifts back on the table. He resettles over her and feels her sharp heels dig into the skin of his legs, gasps back.

"Ah, Kate, your shoes are sharp."

"Payback's a bitch."

He laughs at that, has to, full-bodied and only a little breathless. There are no words, no words for how much he loves her.

He dives back with no warning, surprise parting her lips and making his job almost too easy, his tongue darting past her teeth without meeting any resistance.

In lieu of resistance, in fact, he gets a lovely sigh of abandon, warm air pushed into his mouth, and then Kate's hands slide up from his chest to his neck, cradle him closer, cool fingers winding their way through his hair.

He feels the pressure of her knees squeezing his hips as he plunders her mouth, seeking – and failing – to exhaust its treasures. She tastes so good, rich and intoxicating; it's a shame he has to come up for air.

The sight of her is a different kind of intoxicating though, one he enjoys just as much. Flushed cheeks and parted mouth, deep green eyes half closed in pleasure, dark hair pushed back from her face: he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of it.

He brushes his lips down the smooth line of her throat, light and teasing, and feels her arch under him, every curve of her body crashing into him –

She breaks away with a surprised gasp and turns her head, leaving him startled for a moment. "Kate - ?" She's not - changing her mind, is she? He gulps. Because he honestly doesn't think he's going to be able to walk into this bar without imagining her beneath him now. Ever again. And he _knows_ he'll never be able to look at green felt without wanting her pinned against him and -

"No - the - one of the balls - " she reaches over, pressing her chest against his in a move that can't possibly be an accident, and digs out the offending cue ball.

"Oh." Right. Pool. The reason he has this table in the first place. He forgot for a second, since this has proved to be a much more enjoyable way to use it.

They do have a bet going.

And she's trapped under him. Mostly trapped. This is the perfect time to get rid of all the offending billiard balls and also win. And winning is definitely important.

Castle grabs the stripes and starts rolling them towards the corner pockets, having to practically crawl over Kate to keep one from bouncing back-

"What are you doing?" she growls, grabbing his shirt and tugging.

"Uh, nothing," he mutters, glancing back down at her still-flushed face. What is he doing? Kate, or a game that has a pretty intense bet riding on it-

No contest.

Castle plants one hand to the felt and dives back down to her neck, making her arch under him, her hands busy at the buttons to his shirt. He tilts his head, finds another stripe, flicks it to the side pocket. Then-

Then Kate's hands push his shirt off his shoulders, or as far off as she can manage, and he loses focus for one second, shivers at the brush of cool air across his skin, accompanied by Kate's fingers and their slow, resolute claim on his ribs.

It's a crime she's still wearing her shirt. But those hands, her lips-

He groans, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure as she places an open-mouth kiss to his throat, sucks gently on his skin. Thoughts of stripes and the game and winning linger in his mind, but they retreat further with every warm breath that she takes, every warm breath he feels rippling along his collarbone.

Oh, she's good. In more ways than one.

He makes one last attempt at resisting, his right hand sneaking out to grab the stripe that flickers at the edge of his vision, but Kate stops him, catches his wrist and twists it in a way that can only be described as _vicious._

Castle yelps, mindlessly tries to get away, which in turn only gets them closer (Kate's hold on him is *that* tight). His nerve endings tingle with mixed signals of pain and delight.

"What do you think you're doing, Rick?" She whispers in his ear, caressing and deadly at once.

"I - ah - nothing," he pants, wishing she would loosen her grip on his arm.

"Nothing?" She repeats, her voice too soft. "I call that _cheating_, Richard Castle."

He calls that *winning*, but he's not sure what will happen to his wrist if he says it out loud. So he keeps a prudent silence instead.

"And do you know what happens to cheaters, Castle?"

He swears he can feel the blood drain from his face. He wants to know what happens to cheaters. He really, really wants to know what happens. As long as it involves all of her pressed against him just like she is now. And maybe less clothing. And maybe less talking. And maybe more groaning.

"What happens to cheaters, Kate?"

She lets his wrist go slowly, and he braces himself against the table, aiming for her lips again.

"They get _punished_."

He stops himself just a breath away, so his lips brush hers, light, warm, teasing. Her breath is hot and shallow on his mouth. "I really _have_ been bad, Kate." He punctuates the statement, rocking his hips into hers, satisfaction blooming as he watches her eyes roll back. She bites her lip as she tries to stay in control. "I think you need to punish me, Kate."

The crash and slam of a door being caught by the wind makes them both jump, turn their heads to the sound.

Castle curses as he catches sight of his silly, skinny, man-boy of a bartender surrounded by the thick lines of one of the waitresses, the two of them locked at the lips and hips and pushing their way over the threshold.

He groans and drops his head to Kate's chest, but she's already shoving him off, hissing in his ear to let her get dressed-

Kate was undressed?

Half-distracted by a quick survey of her clothes (damn, her jeans are unbuttoned and her shirt is rucked up), Castle gets pushed off her unceremoniously, falling back to the felt of his pool table just as the two employees take stock and notice them.

Kate is already buttoning up, clambering down, and he notices the two divets in his pool table - deep holes where her heels have scraped the felt and dug in.

She scuffed it up.

"Mr. Castle? Uh, shit, uh, I mean, we-"

Kate? Where's she going?

As if she can hear him, Kate turns and gives him a dark look, her hand already on the door.

"My place, Castle."

And then she's gone.

He lifts off the edge of the table, pulling his shirt back up his arms, shaking his head at the bartender. "Don't worry about it. Uh. This one?" He gestures to the felt behind him. "Don't touch it. It's mine."

Castle buttons up his shirt and follows Kate out the door.

"Lock up when you're done."


	6. Chapter 6: The Dryer

**BSB: The Dryer**

a multi-authored story by **Cora Clavia**, **Sandiane Carter**, and **chezchuckles**

* * *

><p>Kate stands in his entryway, soaking wet.<p>

And not in a good way.

Castle laughs at her and shuts the door, reaching out a hand to brush the drops of water sliding down her neck. Kate shivers at his touch, but again, not in a good way. It's been pouring down rain for hours, and in the city, that means the cabs disappear. She drove the Crown Vic over to his loft, but of course, she had to park two blocks away.

"Get me some dry clothes-" she orders, gesturing back towards his bedroom.

"Go to the laundry room and strip. We can stick those in the dryer, have them ready before you leave?"

She looks down at the floor, notes the puddle staining his hardwood. "Yeah, and bring a towel."

He's halfway down the hall to grab her a towel when she calls after him, "And Castle, if you _ever_ tell me to 'strip' again, I will twist both your ears, understood?"

"Acknowledged." He disappears through the door to his study.

Kate leaves her boots by the door and peels off her jacket on the way to his laundry room, setting it on top of the washer. She's soaked to the skin, chilly enough to be uncomfortable. She undoes a few buttons of her sodden shirt, tugs it free from her waistband, but pauses when she realizes that she doesn't have anything to put on yet. And she's cold. And wet. And her fingers are numb.

Luckily, Castle's never been the kind of man who's easily offended at the sight of a woman's bare skin.

Speaking of, he's really taking his sweet time getting her that towel and extra clothes.

Kate finishes undoing her buttons, winces as she struggles to get the damp fabric off her skin, her shirt clinging in a most unpleasant way. She drops it to the floor, goes through a moment of uncertainty, not sure if taking her clothes off was a good idea. Even though being soaked was making her shiver, the cool air on her exposed skin isn't much better.

Now her teeth are chattering.

Looking around, she spies a heating vent on the wall opposite the washing machine, gets as close to it as she can. Yeah. Better. The warm air at least starts to dry the dampness on her skin.

Her dark blue jeans are stiff, hampering her every move; she unbuttons them, tugs down the zipper, then slides her fingers into the waistband, tugging ineffectually. Her shoulders slump in frustration.

Why did she put on skinny jeans this morning? Ugh. She sighs - because of Castle. Damn it. This is his fault.

She's got her thumbs hooked into her waistband when Castle chooses that moment to walk in. His eyes go dark and fix on her hips; she shivers.

"Need some help?" he growls.

Her breath catches, chills chasing after arousal, mixing up in her blood. Castle drops the towel and a change of clothes to the floor; she watches them fall. His hands are encircling hers before she has a chance to move, his fingers brushing her bare hipbones.

He slides his fingers between the wet material of her jeans and her cool, clammy skin, then tugs her hips forward to meet his, hot and primal.

"Didn't think I'd have to ask, Castle." She's impressed that her voice sounds so steady.

He lets out a short laugh, and she shivers as his thumbs drag over her cool skin. "To get your clothes off? I'll help any way I can, Kate."

His face is close, so very close, and the heat in his gaze starts warming her up. She sways, catching herself with a tentative hand on his arm, and for a second his eyes go dark and she thinks he's going to kiss her -

But instead he presses his cheek to hers, his mouth at her ear, and starts peeling off her jeans, his arms strong, solid lines around her body. The warmth of his chest against hers, skin on skin, makes her curl against him, his hands sliding sensually down her curves.

Surprisingly, he doesn't take her underwear along with the pants - so not like him, missing out on an opportunity - but it doesn't matter anyway, because he gets stuck at her thighs, tugging on the fabric stubbornly until Kate shoves him back.

That *chafes.*

"Too wet, Castle," she breathes.

His chuckle makes her lean towards him, torn between the flare of indignation at how dirty he always makes everything, and the burn of desire at having him undress her. Desire is winning by a landslide.

His mouth stumbles into hers, almost clumsy, as if he's been trying to hold back this whole time, but now that he's failed, his arousal makes him overeager. He nips at her bottom lip and catches her tongue, going in blind, adventurous like a little kid, except what it does to her -

Oh - _oh_ -

Nothing childish about it.

She shivers and pushes him away, catching her breath (she doesn't want her fun to be over quite so soon); the jeans are still bunched around her legs, restricting her movements, and she glances around for a way to get rid of them.

Her eyes fall on the washing machine.

"Castle," she says, surprised at how rough her voice is, how dark and intimate it sounds. "Help me up."

His large warm hands wrap around her hips without her having to say another word; he lifts her on top of the dryer and leans in to brush his mouth over her collarbone, down her chest, teeth and tongue coming out to play. Getting to the good stuff. Oh, damn, his mouth-

She takes him by the ears and holds him away. "Jeans," she commands, her breathlessness taking all the authority out of her voice. She wants to wrap her legs around him; she wants it now.

Castle's hands travel down her exposed thighs, slide under the fabric, the jeans clinging so tightly that his hands seem to throb against her legs. He scoots her closer to him, then eases the waistband down slowly.

Kate lifts her hips, not to help him, but because she can't stop the arch in her back, the sudden coil of need that flares to life. She grips the edge of the dryer and slits her eyes, trying to keep it contained.

He moves his hands to her left thigh, ducks his head to leave open-mouthed kisses on her skin, his nose brushing against her, teeth grazing, making her muscles twitch. Castle drags his hands down her leg, delicious, lovely friction. She clutches his shoulder as he works, squeezing when he stops to play.

"Castle," she gasps.

He moves to the other thigh, slowly peels her jeans off of her.

By the time he's worked his way down to her feet, she's shivering, bowed over, her hands failing to keep her upright. He rises, takes her mouth with his in a long, hot kiss, his hands groping under her thighs. She feels the dryer door bang against her heels and pulls back, stunned.

"Clothes," he murmurs, and tosses all of her wet clothes inside, slamming the door again.

But it's been more than a few seconds since his mouth was on hers and she can't deal with _not_ kissing him at this point, so she grabs his shirt and yanks him to her, winding her arms around his neck. He stumbles forward, ending up between her legs, and as her tongue teases his she hooks one knee around him, pulling him even closer. His hand travels up her back, tracing her spine.

Castle's fingers linger on the clasp of her bra, burning her skin even through the black lace, and a sound that is both impatience and encouragement falls from her lips, disappears into his warm mouth. But he disobeys her inarticulate command, his hands falling to her waist without unhooking anything; she feels him smile against her.

Damned man.

He breaks away from her after one last sweep of his tongue across her bottom lip, and she opens her eyes to stare at him, a dark promise of punishment for playing with her, turning her into this desperate, needy thing (and the worst part? She doesn't even care).

"Have to start the dryer, Kate," he explains, but she sees the impudent look on his face, the proud line of his mouth, the grin he tries to hold back.

He's loving every second of this.

Somewhere behind her, his hand twists the dial and presses start, sending waves of sinful motion up through her body.

Kate swallows and closes her eyes, hands clutching the dryer, vibrations shimmying up her bones.

"How's that?" he murmurs appealingly, his mouth at her jaw, breath hot on her ear.

"Good. Good," she moans, hating herself for it, unable to stop. His fingers flutter over the scrap of silk at her waist, pull her to the edge and against his hips.

She shivers, her body tensing at the sensory overload. He gets bolder, running his hands up over her thighs, and she can't hold back the gasp as his hips rock forward into hers, the friction hitting her in just the right spot. God, he's good at this. Without thinking she tightens her knees around him, forcing him even closer, her body oscillating between the dryer and his his hips.

He comes willingly, his mouth eagerly seeking her neck, her wildly beating pulse. Kate tilts her head back to make way for him, and another moan escapes her without permission. She's not in control of anything; her hands grip his back, digging into his warm skin as if he might misunderstand her intentions - she certainly does *not* want him to stop, but it's not like they can get any closer without -

"Oh-oh."

The sound leaves her lips mindlessly; the dryer thrums under her and Castle has unclasped her bra, and - oh god - his fingers are slowly sliding along her ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts, gentle and yet so arousing, and he's pressed against her, and she wants him, wants only _him_-

She's so close, so so _close_, and the constant tremor of the dryer is echoed in the tremor of her body as his mouth lowers, his thumbs brush across her-

"Oh God."

They both jerk violently, drawing apart, because that's not her voice, that's not his voice, that's not either of them but-

"Alexis," he croaks out.

Kate turns her head, flames racing up her throat and into her cheeks, to see his daughter standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other over her mouth, her eyes entirely too wide for an eighteen year old. Wide and staring right at Kate. Kate, whose bare legs are wrapped around-

"Oh God," Alexis repeats, spins around, and slams the door shut.

Kate groans, dropping her head into Castle's shoulder, letting her legs fall from around his waist, her heels banging into the dryer. She's still on the razor's edge of pleasure, and the vibration from her heels against the metal makes her back arch, pressing her body against his despite herself.

"Kate," Castle grits out, choked, his arm coming tight against her back.

"S-sorry," she hisses, tries to separate from him. "Go, talk to her."

"Not possible." His hand at her ribs squeezes. "Not like this."

Kate lifts her fingers to massage her forehead, tries to breathe. "Let me down. I have to get off-"

He makes a strangled noise and she curses silently as she realizes what she's said, but she slides off the dryer, trying to put distance between them. Her body is quivering with need. She wants to just, really quickly, just straddle his thigh and-

Alexis, she reminds herself, biting her lip.

"I'll go," she says finally, clasping her bra together and scooping the clothes up off the floor that he brought for her. "I'll go." Shit. Shit, she does *not* want to do this.

Castle is leaning against the wall, hunched over, and he doesn't even make a move when she tugs on the tshirt, the pair of shorts he must have borrowed from his daughter.

His daughter. Damn. "What in the world do I even say? Sorry you caught me making out with your father?"

He laughs - he would find this funny. Cheeks burning, Kate opens the laundry room to look for Alexis.

From behind her, Castle calls out, "Apology is the best policy, Kate."

Damn man. This is *his* fault.


	7. Chapter 7: Mistletoe

**BSB: Mistletoe**

* * *

><p>"Castle, I'm not in the mood for this right now."<p>

He shifts from foot to foot, his hands behind his back, and Beckett eyes him over the top of her computer monitor. Her fingers squeeze around her pen, but it wouldn't do any good to yell at him.

Five days before Christmas, and Castle is like a little kid. All nervous energy and breathless wonder and heart-pounding excitement.

"What are you hiding behind your back?" she says shortly, taking in a deep breath through her nose.

"Nuthin'."

Uh-huh. Right.

Kate eases to her feet, takes a few steps towards the murder board. When she feels Castle crowding at her back, she swiftly spins round, her hand outstretched, intending to grab his arm.

Except, he *jumps* back. Actually jumps back. In time to avoid her.

Since when does he have such sharp reflexes? (Okay, she's being petty. His sharp reflexes may have saved her life a couple times).

Castle looks entirely too pleased with himself; he grins at her, blue eyes sparkling. "No no no, detective," he taunts. "You have to ask nicely."

Ugh. Torn between rolling her eyes and groaning at his childishness, Kate does neither. She simply goes back to her desk, reclaims her chair (and - alas - her paperwork). "Fine, Castle. It's not like I care."

He pouts. He actually _pouts_, all puppy-dog eyes and sweetly fake innocence and even though she's seen it a million times, she has to tell herself _No_. Not again. Don't let him win like this.

"Beckeeeeett. You are ruining _all_ my fun and that's not the Christmas spirit."

"We are at _work_ right now. You can't just wait?" Seriously. The amount of effort and concentration he's putting into - well, whatever this is - tells her it's probably something ridiculous, will probably embarrass her, and generally should be avoided.

But _damn_ it, he's adorable when he pouts.

Not that she's going to tell him that.

He leans in close, still standing as she sits at her desk, his mouth brushing her ear. She licks her bottom lip and tries to still her skipping heartbeat.

"Puh-lease. Just give me a few minutes."

The flutter drifting up her body makes her weak; she actually leans her head towards that mouth, as if to trap it there, as if to keep it always breathing so hot and ticklish against her skin.

"Kate," he whispers.

Her hand rises of its own accord, strokes the stubbled edge of his jaw. It's late and the case isn't over; it's late and Gates will reappear from that press briefing at any moment. It's late and his voice is as rough and ready as his unshaven cheek.

"Come with me, Kate."

Damn. She can't say no to that, the soft pleading, the quiet need. She just...can't. Shaking her head at herself, she sighs.

"Just for a minute," she warns, meeting his eyes and catching the flicker of joy that crosses them.

Warm. She feels warm all over. And her skin burns. How can he do that in one look?

Castle tries - and fails - to hide his triumph, but at least he doesn't voice it, only extends a hand for her as she rises from her chair. The other hand is still behind his back.

She's not sure whether or not she should be scared. Although, honestly, he'd probably be more nervous than this if he was hiding a - a -

Ring. Come on, Kate, you can think it.

No, knowing Castle, it's not a ring. So she relaxes forcibly, lets him take her into Interrogation 2. Just for a minute.

(Because it's not a ring. Not. A ring. Say it again, Kate.)

As she shuts the door behind them, she mentally flicks through worst-case scenarios. No barking, mewing, chirping or ribbiting, so probably not a live animal (thankfully). Small enough to hide, so not an obtrusively giant potted poinsettia. No crinkle of plastic, so not a wrapped set of satin sheets.

She blushes because, for a moment, the last possibility really didn't sound half bad.

Door shut, she turns around and folds her arms, finding him watching her, hands still behind his back, boyish anticipation on his face. He's just impossible to resist when he looks like this (though she will do her best). And he knows it. And she should hate him for it, but...no. No such luck.

But she keeps her arms firmly folded, as if to block any excess sweetness from crumbling her professional facade. (They _are_ still at work, after all.)

"What is it, Castle?"

He slides closer to her, easing his ridiculous grin down a notch or two so that he merely beams, the soft light of his joy buffeting her.

"I wanted to say Merry Christmas," he murmurs soothingly.

She would say something to that, say something about how inane that sounds, but he's wrapping his arms low around her waist, leaning back so that his hips cradle her, the jut of his hipbones against hers. He watches her for a moment, then slides an arm up her spine, skims her skull, fingers brushing the crown of her head, all while leaning in to kiss her.

"Castle-"

"Mistletoe, Kate," he murmurs against her mouth, shutting her up.

His lips are moist, sharply sweet too, which is either the peppermint he crunched loudly in her ear a few hours ago or the flavored chapstick he swiped from her drawer. His mouth lingers against hers, nuzzling, quick breaths between them, the tentative dance of his tongue against her bottom lip.

She parts for him but he loiters, details the corners of her quirked lips where her smile so often resides.

Of course he would take his time, now that he's lured her in here. But she's feeling magnanimous, her mood having substantially improved in the course of the last two minutes, and there's something about the care he puts into kissing her, about the slow caress of his mouth - something that touches her heart.

So she doesn't push, lets him linger.

Even though she has to make a fist to keep her fingers from reaching for him.

At long last he moves past the barrier of her lips, his warm, wet mouth almost too much - too good - and Kate sighs against his lips, relief and delight both. Her hands dart to his neck like birds let out of their cage, skim his cheeks, the line of his jaw.

She's on her toes before she knows it, even if she doesn't need to, even if her heels today make her just as tall as he is.

On her toes with impatience and desire and -

Love.

Her heart hammers uncontrollably, because all those times he's brought her completely undone, begging, shivering, writhing, she can handle, but all he's doing is _kissing_ her, and her whole mind is reeling with _love_ and it's just so much more -

Her palm rests softly against his cheek, the slight graze of stubble against her skin, a sharp contrast to the delicate gentleness of his mouth on hers. She feels him take a breath, his chest moving against her.

The kiss ends and she rests her forehead against his, relishing the contact, letting her fingers softly trace the edge of his jaw. "Mistletoe? Really?"

His eyes shimmer as he produces the sprig, and she can't help but laugh at the sorry-looking, crumpled little plant.

"It's seen better days," she grins, biting her lower lip.

Castle pouts at her, half-smiling. "Well, it's been in my pocket most of the day. You're a hard woman to catch, you know that?"

Something warm and absurdly soft and glowing uncurls in her chest, making her heart miss a few beats. Because he's been wanting to kiss her all day. _All day_. "You couldn't just ask me?"

His eyes meet hers, still sparkling but more serious now. His voice is soft and low and intimate. "I wanted it to be special."

_Oh_, that was special all right.

She shifts forward to press another kiss against the grizzle of his cheek, but he intercepts her, snags her lips with his, a buzz of pleasure wavering between them before she realizes it's her. It's her whole body vibrating to his touch.

Slow delight trickles down, like glitter falling, sparkle and shine inside. She shivers at the fingers slow and smooth on her jaw, the lazy work of his thumb positioning her, angling her, his body a cove around hers, warm and giving.

She rolls her mouth away from his to breathe, little panting gasps as her heart hammers, aroused but not on fire, burning but not consumed. She feels the unspeakable and ridiculous urge to worship.

Silly, Kate. But still it hovers, the words haunting her lips, tempting and beautiful, tingling on her tongue. The words he's said before. I, and love, and -

Before she can decide one way or the other, can step across that abyss of indecision extending in front of her, Castle has her mouth again, doing his fair share of worship as his tongue sweeps at her lower lip, wanders inside, gentle and adventurous at once.

She's never known a man with more contradictions to him - irritating and endearing, childish and yet so patient sometimes. Patient with what matters.

Gratitude blossoms in her chest, its delicate petals unfurling, taking all the room.

She lets her arms slide around his neck, her fingers playing with the soft copper hairs at his nape as she gets closer. And closer. Tell him with her body, if the words won't come.

His touch gets milder, till he's brushing soft, delicate kisses against her lips, one after another, warm and mesmerizing and drugging and so perfect. She lets her nails scratch lightly over his neck, her fingers dragging slowly over his ear, and feels the low hum of appreciation rumble through his chest.

She manages to pull her mouth away from his - Richard Castle is utterly _tenacious_ when it comes to kissing - long enough to whisper, "So, anything you wanted to tell me besides 'Merry Christmas?'"

If he says it first, then-

He kisses her lips again, longer, lingering, before kissing her cheek, leaning to speak right into her ear, warm and close and unmistakable.

"There's definitely more, Kate. When you're ready to hear it."

The ripple of awareness slides slowly over her body. She knows, she's always known; she wants nothing more than to lay herself bare to those words, absorb them into her skin.

"I'm-"

"-not ready. I know," he murmurs. "I know."

No. That's not-

His mouth descends the column of her throat and swirls across the open field of her chest, leaving flurries in his wake. She shivers and curls her arms around his shoulders, the back of his head, holds him to her. She wants too much. He doesn't want enough.

"C-Castle," she whispers, cursing the way her voice halts when his mouth brushes the collar of her shirt, teases at her hidden skin. His hands dare do what his lips only hint at, slipping under her shirt and curling at her waist, so soft and cool and light.

Her mouth parts on a shaky sigh. Tilting her head back, she meets an obstacle, realizes that somehow or another, he's backed her against the wall.

"I," she breathes, stubbornly hanging on to those words he won't let her say, resisting the delicious haze of pleasure that calls to her, siren-like, tempts her to drown in him.

His lips merge with her skin, trail a slow burn up her throat as he makes his way back to her mouth, flirts with it.

He bites at her earlobe, murmurs, "I don't need your words, Kate."

That's a lie if she ever heard one; and yet he sounds so earnest. She almost believes him.

His fingertips press into the skin of her back and she arches into him involuntarily, an unsteady breath escaping her. And Castle, damn him, has the nerve to smile, sucking lightly at the spot just beneath her ear that makes her eyes roll back. He's good at this. He's way too good at this. He's become far too good at reading her body, learning exactly which touch will render her speechless and trembling. And not that she doesn't like it - he knows exactly how much she likes it - but she's determined.

It takes a surprising amount of effort for her to set her hands on his chest and push him away. At first it's half-hearted, but he finally obeys, takes half a step back, kissing her one last time - so deeply and thoroughly her toes curl and she sees sparks. When they finally part, they're both breathing hard, and Kate knows her hair is tousled and her lips are warm and swollen and desperate for another kiss.

Castle, who somehow hasn't lost his cool, eyes her curiously. It's not often she makes him stop. "What?"

She has to fight her ragged heart for a breath, her skin already hot and eager.

"I do-" She shakes her head, tries again.

She should look in his eyes for this, read them. She should make it good, for him. He deserves the grand gesture.

"I do love you," she says, pleased that her voice only trembles with want.

Not fear.

Castle's face blanks out, stunned by her. "You-"

The door to interrogation pops open, the lights burn brightly on, and Kevin Ryan is hustling a drunk suspect forward in front of him. "Sit down, you asshole."

Kate gapes, feels suddenly her rucked up shirt, half opened, the press of Castle's thigh against her, her leg wrapped around his hip, his hand holding her thigh up. And most importantly, her hands cradle his face, his lovestruck, overjoyed face.

Ryan blushes furiously, his lips moving soundlessly. Little gasps come out.

For a moment, no one moves, the whole room frozen like a tableau out of those medieval miracle plays.

Even the suspect stares through heavily-lidded eyes, swaying on his feet, not leering but blinking like he can't comprehend what's happening. What they're doing in here.

Slowly, Kate slides her leg down, gritting her teeth. Maybe slow wasn't a good idea after all, she realizes as she tries to block the shiver that wants out. Her heel hits the floor with a soft sound that seems to shake Castle out of his trance.

He makes obvious attempts at swallowing down his awe, at turning off the happiness that lights up his face, but she quickly sees that it's not going to happen.

And she doesn't want it to happen.

Time to move, Kate.

She gently pushes Castle back from her, tugs on her shirt in an effort to make herself presentable, and snags his hand to drag him out. The mistletoe gets crushed between their palms.

She catches a glimpse of a smile on Ryan's still-red face; without stopping or slowing down, she mutters, "No comment, Honeymilk."

When they get to her desk, she quickly shuts down her computer, shrugs on her jacket, looking for her purse.

"Uh, Kate?" Castle asks hesitantly, which is an amusing contradiction to the persistent beam on his face. "What are you doing?"

There it is. She grabs the leather bag, and starts towards the elevator. Halfway there, she spins on her heels, sees that the writer isn't following. Kate bites her lip, then gives him a slow, sexy smile.

"You better have more mistletoe at the loft, Castle."


	8. Chapter 8: The Dressing Room

**BSB: The Dressing Room (rated M)**

* * *

><p>Kate slides her jeans off her legs and throws them into the corner of the spacious dressing room. She's glad that Lanie suggested this intimate boutique for dress shopping; the personal shopper has collected about ten different things to try on at her leisure.<p>

Shucking her tank top over her head, Kate tosses out her hair and sighs at her image in the mirror. She traces her fingers over the scar at her chest, drifting dangerously close to maudlin-

The dressing room door pops open and she startles, turning around.

"Castle!"

"Shhhhh." His eyes are dancing with mischief as he carefully closes the door behind him. "We don't want anyone to hear."

He's right, and she doesn't want to cause a scene (though this is _Castle_ and causing scenes is the most regular job he's had in years), so she settles for folding her arms over her chest and shooting him what she hopes is a convincing glare. "What are you _doing _here?"

"Talking to you," he shrugs, as if it's not remotely odd for him to sneak into women's dressing rooms.

Talking. Riiight. And of course he had to wait until she was half-naked for this talk.

Kate leans back against the wall - another advantage of these classy boutiques is how they go all out for their customers, which translates here into a pale pink fabric lining the walls. Feels soft and welcoming to her exposed skin.

And she arches her eyebrows at Castle, waiting.

Whatever he meant to say, it seems that he's having a hard time remembering. She watches him swallow as his eyes linger on the long line of her legs, before he drags them back to her chest, then to her face, with what seems like a considerable effort.

Kate struggles with the beginnings of a grin. She doesn't need to look back at the mirror to know that the soft lights must be highlighting her figure, throwing gentle shadows over what curves she has.

"Is this gonna take all day?" She asks, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

"Oh, I'd love to take all day," he murmurs, stalking forward with something dark in his eyes.

If she weren't already up against the wall, she might step back. Involuntarily. As it is, her breath catches as his hands tug at her crossed arms, slide down to capture her wrists.

"Castle, I'm supposed to be trying on a dress. For my mother's charity-"

"That's what I'm here for. To help you pick. I can be very helpful."

"You can be very distracting," she mutters, feeling his thumbs stroking her wrists.

"Me? You're the one half-naked."

"Because you're in my dressing room, Castle. I'm supposed to be half-naked."

"I'm not against you being half-naked. Not one bit. Here. Spin around so I can-"

She jerks a wrist out of his loose hold and grabs his ear, tugging him down. "Rick Castle-"

Instead of calling 'apples', he closes the distance and kisses her, his teeth as savage as her pinching fingers, working away at her lips.

She hisses but doesn't push him away, parts her lips under his, lets his tongue slide in quickly. The hand on his ear slips into his hair, and he's got her against the wall, her back arching as he trails his fingers lightly down her sternum. Oh.

And then his knee slides between her legs, like he does this everyday (she refuses to admit it, but he knows _exactly_ what she likes and it's pretty darn close to every day), and her body really, really wants to just go for it right now but her rational mind manages to get out that this is a _bad_ idea.

"Castle." Her voice is muffled, and she plants her hands on his chest, pushes, tries to get his tongue out of her mouth. Where it's taken up increasingly frequent residence. "_Castle_. We are _not_ doing this here."

"Beck_ettttt_," he grumbles. "Come on. Live a little."

"No."

He pouts but obediently gives her some space, and she puts a hand on her hip, causing one bra strap slide down her shoulder, watching in fascination as his eyes go darker and he swallows, staring at her with such unbridled want that she blushes.

She shoots him her most innocent look, letting her lashes sweep over her cheeks before she meets his eyes, coy and demure. "So what did you want to talk about, Castle?"

To be honest, she does not really expect an answer. She is half-convinced by now that his desire to _talk_ was only an excuse to get inside the fitting room with her. Which she probably should be annoyed about.

If only his eyes weren't so blue. If only the soft lighting didn't catch on the faint traces of stubble on his jaw.

She sighs inwardly, berates herself. _No_.

"I wanted to..." He seems to hesitate, and she flicks her eyes from his lips to his eyes, surprised. Oh, crap. Was she staring at his mouth? Crap. Thank god, Castle doesn't appear to have noticed. He *actually* has something to talk about, it seems.

"Um, I wanted to see what you were, what you - what you were going to wear. At the fundraiser."

Duh. She gathered as much. And his sudden determination to avoid her gaze tells her there is more.

"And?"

He presses his lips together - she _really_ does not need another reason to focus on his mouth - and then he lets out in one breath, "And since I dragged you into this without really asking if you were okay with the whole, "let's use your mother's name for a scholarship and hold a fundraiser and invite a bunch of important people to contribute money" thing, I was thinking, the least I could do is - offer to pay for your dress."

The breath that got trapped inside her at his mounting nervousness whooshes out of her lungs. Oh. It's only that. Castle being Castle. Thank god. She closes her eyes in relief.

"But - but - if you don't want me to -"

"No," she breathes, opens her eyes. "That's. . .sweet."

The nervousness leaves him in an instant - she gave away too much. He comes back for her, slides his hands up her bare sides then around to her back, pressing all of her into him, hard and strong. She swallows and tries to inch back a little, get some room, but his lips are at her ear.

"That's all I really wanted to say, but looking at you now. Like this." His tongue traces the line of her jaw and she shudders, eyes falling shut.

She has to admit, the man has a way with words. Especially when he chooses to use just a few.

She can't help but laugh softly, though her breath catches when his tongue hits the pulse point at the base of her throat and lingers there. And she really knows they shouldn't be doing this, she does, but he's just so adoring and loving and he knows exactly -

A gasp escapes her as his fingers trace the column of her spine, up the bare expanse of her back, and his hands are big and warm and confident and she's swallowing because she can't stop the little shiver of anticipation that spreads through her body, hot and light and bubbly.

"Castle - " that sounded too much like a moan. She tries again. "Castle. You know I'm supposed to be trying things _on_."

He hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing it seems, as his lips continue their unhurried way to her throat, sometimes a gentle brush and sometimes more demanding, hot pressure applied to her skin.

Her lashes flutter but she struggles to keep her eyes open, because she knows that the moment she closes them is the moment she surrenders. The moment she gives in, and that's the moment Castle is waiting for. She cannot give in - not here, in the dressing room of a fancy boutique.

Can she?

Before the idea can become more than a tempting whisper at the back of her brain, more than this exhilarating tingle in her belly, Castle detaches himself from her, arches an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth quirks into this dark, deadly smile, and desire lashes through her, makes her back arch. Her body answering his silent call without her permission.

"I don't mind you trying things on," he murmurs, rumbles, the deep notes rubbing at her skin. "As long as *I* get to take them off."

It's cold in here without his hands all over her, without his body heat crowding her. She shivers and wraps her arms around her waist, nods to the dresses hanging up just past him. Tries to regain control.

"Hand me one, then."

He gapes at her, as if stunned she's actually serious. "What?"

"Hand me a dress so I can try it on. And then-"

"And then I can take it off?" he says, sounding both pleased and surprised. "You'll let me take it off?" he asks, and his voice dips lower, throatier, and she vibrates at the sound.

The clenching fist of arousal grabs her tight; Kate holds out a hand wordlessly, watching him. Castle reaches back without looking, snags the first dress he comes to. It's a deep violet, the skirt shimmers; she has no idea at all, only feels her fingers fumbling at the hangar, the material slipping through her fingers.

"This is gonna take forever," he moans, and moves forward to catch the dress before it can fall. "Let me help."

She might not survive this.

He's surprisingly good; he untangles the straps, finds the zipper and slides it down carefully, and looks back up at her. "Put your arms up."

Kate finds herself unusually silent and obedient, raising her hands, and then a moment later, cool silky material slithers down her body. She takes a deep breath as he carefully tugs her hair free, gently combing it over her shoulder so he can zip up the back of the dress, and without thinking, she closes her eyes, leaning into the warmth of his hands on the back of her neck. His thumb slowly traces the top of her spine, then disappears, and she blinks a little dazedly.

Getting dressed isn't usually this mesmerizing.

"Well?" He stands back to let her take a look.

She surveys herself in the mirror, appraising his first choice. Deep violet, rich and distracting; the fabric is soft and floaty and shines under the lights, tasteful beading on the bodice glittering subtly. Less dazzling; more elegant. Classy. She likes purple; it works with her eyes. She turns, seeing the delicate straps that cross over her back, the skirt swirling around her knees.

"I like it. What do you think?"

When he doesn't answer right away, she looks up at the reflection of his face. He's studying her, blue eyes squinted in deliberation, lips pressed together, and silly goosebumps erupt on her skin.

He puts his hands on her shoulders, the warm contact sending little sparks of electricity down her arms, but it's only so he can twirl her around, make her face him. His gaze lingers, almost a physical touch; it rests on the neckline, moves to her waist, her legs, comes back.

She might be blushing.

"Mmm," he says at last, and Kate can barely hear him over her thumping heart. "It's nice, but could be better."

Her throat is helplessly dry; she knows better than to make an attempt at answering. He doesn't seem to notice. His fingers come up to skim the neckline - she tries to still her breathing, because her chest is heaving and there's no way, _no way_ he'll miss that.

And yet -

"Not a straight line," he comments, seemingly unaware. "Heart-shaped would be nicer. On you, anyway."

Heat flashes through her veins, pounding, primal need, and she's not even sure why. Maybe it's how serious he is about helping her find the right dress; maybe it's the way he sounds like he's given a lot of thought to what would look good on her. Which he probably has.

Maybe it's how calm and collected he looks, when she's burning inside. June Carter was right: it's a ring of fire, tightening around her guts.

"Castle," she manages to get out, her voice a strangled, pitiful sound. He looks at her, really looks, and realization gathers on his face, darkness in its wake. "Get it off me."

"I thought you'd never ask," he murmurs, diving for her mouth.

She accepts the fierce insurgence of his tongue, the grip of his hands at her shoulders, but this isn't - there is still too much material - this isn't what she wants.

Her hands gather fistfuls of his shirt, tug it from his pants, pulling him into her. She wants nothing more than to lay him bare before her, skin to skin, but first this needs off.

"Castle," she commands, breaking her mouth from his with an effort. "I said, Off-"

His hands obey this time, his mouth terrorizing her neck with aggressive teeth while he reaches down and rucks the skirt up. The feel of his broad palms, the heat of his fingers painting every long inch of her legs, up her sides, makes a fist clench in her belly, tight with need. He gets caught up at the bust and she growls low in her throat with frustration.

"Not that way - the zipper. Damn it, you just put it on me; you should know-"

And then he's jerked her around, pressing her to the wall of the dressing room with his hips while his hand yanks at the zipper. She lays her cheek against the soft material, panting, pushing back into his hips with hers. His teeth find her neck as his fingers slowly - too slowly - unzip her dress.

She bites her lip to keep herself quiet (they _are_ in a store, she remembers) and lets out a long, shivery sigh as he runs his hand down the newly-exposed skin of her back before he starts to pull it over her head, his body pressing into hers, long and warm and she can't help but lean into him, a long breath escaping her as he finally pulls the fabric away and his lips are back on her throat, his hand stealing over her bare stomach, fingertips dancing lightly over her skin.

She hears the ruffle of the dress falling to the floor, can't bring herself to care. The sensation of Castle crowding her back is too much, too good; her brain has room for nothing else.

Her hands are resting flat on the wall of the dressing room, but her fingers curl when he reaches to pull her hair up with one hand, and she digs them into the soft fabric, her nails sharp and needy, when he works his teeth against her nape.

Then it's his tongue, hot, scalding tongue, and she can't - _oh_ -

He's found a spot at the base of her neck, between her shoulder blades, a spot that is ridiculously sensitive, and Kate can't keep her hips from bucking, can't do anything about the low, ragged whimper that sneaks its way out her lips.

She just - wants him so bad.

She can't even muster the will to hate him for it. If he would only - if he would just let her turn around, let her hook her knee-

One of his hands slides around her waist, teasing and light, rests against her belly. She reaches back, gripping his hip, her fingers digging into the muscle there, pulling him closer, flush.

"Kate," he growls. "I wanna do bad things to you."

Yes. She wants - wants him to do whatever the hell he wants if his hand would just, just dip lower and-

He bites the tendon of her neck and she arches, pushing against the wall. Her leg tangles around his, trying to get purchase, to wrap around him somehow and open herself to him.

The broad flat palm, warm in the cool air of the dressing room, slides across her stomach to her hip, dips under the waistband of her panties.

"Castle-"

"Yeah?"

Suddenly she doesn't trust herself to speak. Not when his hand is slowly sliding in, lower, just _barely_ where she wants it to be, heat blossoming through her body, her skin burning, her very being humming with anticipation.

"Say it," he murmurs, his hand stilling against her as he sucks on the base of her throat.

She takes a ragged breath - he is way, way too good at this - and closes her eyes, swallowing, her fists clenching against the wall. "Castle."

He waits her out, patient even when she doesn't want him to be. That man. Oh, she has to say something now, doesn't she?

"Get on with it or you'll die a slow, painful death," she gets out through grinding teeth, her voice halting, breaking on the last words. His own damn fault.

She feels his mouth curve into a smile against her neck; the low, arousing sounds of his laughter curl around her skin. She wants to bite at something. Him. That smiling mouth.

"I guess that's the best I'll get," he muses, his tone thoughtful and entirely too detached.

She's going to make an answer to that, something witty and threatening, something good, but then his fingers move and all the words escape as her lips part on the moan that she cannot, *cannot* let out. Silent. She has to be silent.

Kate closes her eyes and tries her best, even though he seems intent on getting sounds out of her, his hand so slow and determined and purposeful, oh Castle -

So good. The air vanishes from her lungs in short, breathy little pants, too much like sobs (not that she cares, anyway; she is *so* past that), and her body moves with him, irresistible, the pleasure coming and going like waves, receding only to crash harder against the shore.

So close, so very-

He presses his hand flat against her, stills, no movement, his other arm wrapped around her torso to hold her up, and she realizes she's not even standing on her own feet, but why - why - why has he stopped-

"Say it," he demands, his mouth hot at her ear, his lips wetly trailing down to her neck.

"Don't stop," she moans, raises a hand to her mouth to silence herself, keep it back. Her hips move but he stays carefully away from her, moving as she moves, away as she goes in.

"Say it, Kate."

She's shivering, hot and cold at the same time, throbbing and needing that hand that hovers just out of reach.

Kate ignores his words and presses her hand over his, fingers meshing together, and tries to make him-

Castle bites the skin at her neck and squeezes her fingers, removes their joined hands to her belly where her tension only tightens.

"Say it."

She lifts her hand behind her, grasps the back of his neck, holding on, her fingers tight because she hates him, hates when he forces her-

"I love you," she groans. "Love you, make me-"

His hand slides between her thighs, ruthless and joyful, and she shudders, bowing over his arm, their hands still joined, her mouth at his bicep to smother the terrible urgency of her love.

She trembles within the frame of his arms, the cradle of his body; she clenches her teeth, can taste the material of his shirt, forces herself not to make a sound. She undulates helplessly, her breath ragged, dizzying, as her body tightens, upward, his fingers, up, clenched around his arm, breaking, coming apart.

His lips press a kiss to the side of her neck. He doesn't let go even as her body pounds, quiets, and she's grateful, the strong cords of his arms supporting them when her own legs are trembling and useless things under her.

Hazily, her brain starts giving her sensory information that she can barely handle at the moment - the delicate caress of Castle's mouth to her ear, her neck, the thrumming heat of him at her back, the flat and still hand against her.

Her too-sensitive skin tells her - enough.

Enough to know exactly how much he wants her, despite the soft, barely-there kisses he scatters over her shoulders, despite the absolute lack of impatience in his low, rich humming.

Arousal lights a slow burn, liquid fire under her skin. Kate swallows and drops her hand to Castle's, resting flat on her stomach. Inquiry and demand both.

"Castle," she murmurs, surprised at how raw her voice is, like she's cried out and moaned and whimpered, and not kept quiet all along.

He turns her around, his movements so gentle, tender, that she doesn't expect the dark hunger in his eyes when she meets his gaze.

Breathless again, her body quickening, she pulls him to her, invades his mouth, a thank you and a promise.

He lets her pillage, but parts his lips and keeps a light, careful approach. It's only when she skims her fingers down to his waistband that she feels the tautness of his abs, realizes exactly how much control he's exerting over himself. Has been exerting.

The knock on the door makes her jump so hard that her hips bump into his; his eyes slam shut, his lips closed on the moan she can feel vibrating in his chest.

"Ms. Beckett? How's it going in there? Is the dress a good fit?"

Kate shuts her eyes at the choice of words, swallowing down the laugh that threatens. A good fit. Oh, yes. He is.

She breathes in and out slowly before she can open her eyes again and answer, pushing the words out. "Yes, it's perfect. Thank you."

She sees the devilish grin that quirks Castle's lips, shoves on him playfully. Still, she's thinking instead about shoving him over to that bench along the wall under the dresses and-

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" the saleswoman asks, and there's something in her voice that alerts Kate, tells her the woman must have heard -

Something.

Damn.

Castle steps back, resignation in his eyes, but she snags his hand, makes him look at her. If she cannot give him - _that_ - at least she wants him to have this.

"No, thanks," she tells the saleswoman, loud enough. And staring at his face to make sure he understands, she adds, "I have everything I need."


	9. Chapter 9: Snowbound

**BSB: Snowbound**

by **Cora Clavia**, **Sandiane Carter**, and **chezchuckles**

* * *

><p>"Come on, Beckett. Just one."<p>

She eyes the slushy grey snow of Central Park, glances back up at him. "No."

"Look, just past the swings. Plenty of pristine snow to make snow angels."

"We found a body just past the swings last year, Castle. You of all people should know I'm not-"

"Ug, no. Forget the body. That's so last year. Right now - it's beautiful. Look at it." His face is so hopeful and generous and eager. She hates to crush his spirits but there is no way she is lying down in the middle of Central Park to make a snow angel with him.

"Castle, I've been trudging through four inches of snow all day, trying to narrow down our suspects. The cuffs of my pants are soaked through. My toes just started to thaw out at the precinct and now that I get to go home? I'm going home. Not plopping myself in a snowbank."

"Look at it this way," he pleads, cajoles, his hand in a fist like he's trying not to reach out for her. "You _know_ you're going home. You know there's a warm shower and clean, dry clothes waiting for you. So why not make a tiny, tiny angel in that beautiful snow? For me."

She sighs and he must think she's relenting, because he hastily adds, "Only two minutes, I promise."

Damn him. She is *not* doing this, but now she feels bad for crushing his hopes. Hopes that he shouldn't have formed in the first place. Castle.

"No," she resists, but even she can tell that her voice lacks the conviction she had seconds ago. She glances at the snow again, vaguely reconsiders, but, ugh, that grey, dirty color... Not-uh. No way.

Just then she realizes that Castle is moving swiftly at the edge of her vision; she swivels her head to him.

"_Castle!"_

Before she can stop him, he curls an arm around her waist and tackles her. She only has time to shove back ineffectively as he dives to the snow, his size and momentum dragging her with him.

She lands on his chest with a startled _oomf_, staring down at him, just inches from his sparkling blue eyes crinkled with delight, mirth tugging his mouth, his cheeks red from the cold. The scattering of trees at the edge of the Park's path temporarily hides them from view, but the wide open stretch of the Meadow is mere feet away.

This is not okay.

She scowls at him. "_Castle!"_

"Oops. Slipped."

"My ass, you slipped," she hisses.

Castle's eyebrows twitch. "I think that can be arranged." And then he's flipped her over, her back into the cold, wet snow - grimy, disgusting, well-trod snow. Dogs do their business here; dead bodies are discovered-

"I hate you for this," she glares, unable to keep the heat of her fury as snow melts against her neck, soaks through her coat. Her skin crawls with the chill.

"Arms out, Detective-"

He snags her hands from between them and opens her arms wide, leaning against her wrists in the snow.

"Castle. You're gonna break my arms." She struggles against him, bringing a knee up to really do some damage, but he shifts his hips to pin her, and then her legs spread against her will, but oh-

Oh damn. She can feel his belt buckle against her pelvis, intimate and rough, the seam of her jeans pressing into her.

She might not be unable to suppress the heat that immediately flares, tightening in her guts, but she's certainly not going down without a fight.

Beckett stares at Castle with an eyebrow up, giving him that _are you serious?_ look (because, come on, the dirty snow? how is this even remotely sexy?) - but he stares back, innocence laced with pleasure in his blue eyes as he moves her arms up and down, intent on making wings for his snow angel.

Ugh. He's not even trying to get her hot and bothered; it's just her body's stupid, instinctive reaction to having him on top of her, the friction between them. She bites her lip and closes her eyes, forcing herself to ignore this unwelcome side effect.

He can make his snow angel if he wants, and then she's going home. Oh yeah. Alone. That's what he gets for -

Just then he moves her wrist a little too brusquely, and snow gets inside the sleeve of her coat; Beckett hisses in displeasure, her body arching in rebellion at the disgusting intrusion that immediately soaks her clothes, makes her skin clammy.

"Castle, that's enough-"

He cuts her off mid-sentence with a sudden kiss. She shivers. His lips are cold from the winter air but his mouth is hot; the cavern of his body covering hers is like slipping into a bath, and she can't help herself. She opens her mouth, letting him steal a taste of her as his tongue slips in. Damn it, she's still unhappy about this. Isn't she?

He breaks away from her all too soon, her wet lips freezing in the sudden chill of air between them.

"Just have to finish," he whispers, kissing the tip of her quickly-numbing nose before returning to his previous actions, though he's a little gentler this time, his grip on her wrists a little softer. He's using his knees for leverage on either side of her thighs; his jeans must be soaked through as well, but he doesn't seem to care. She swallows, her eyes closing, the warmth of his body pressing against hers, heavy and strong, rocking with the motion of creating a snow angel.

After a few more sweeps of her arms, he pauses, lifts himself onto his elbows by drawing their arms in close, their chests pressed tightly together, surveying his work with a smile. "Very nice. We're half done."

"Half done? Not-uh, Castle," she mutters and strains against his grip, breaking free to put her hands on his chest and push.

He grunts, but she's not looking to get up, not now. Not now that she's soaked through, now that she's felt the weight of him, the force of him almost exactly where she wants him. So very close.

Beckett wraps her foot around his calf and flips them easily, putting Castle in the snow.

Now she's on top.

"I get to make a snow angel?" he says, voice silky and purring, entirely too pleased with himself.

She's not sure what to say to that, what to answer this ridiculous man grinning up at her, looking like he doesn't even _feel_ the slowly-melting snow under his back.

So she studies him, lets him wait it out with that air of mystique and danger in her cold gaze, taking in the crinkled blue of his eyes, the messed-up hair that she wants to drag her fingers through and pull, and then she decides that they can do without words after all.

Beckett moves fast; he's not expecting her to dart forward because when her lips crash into his, rough and demanding - just the way she likes it - he lets out a grunt. A sound of awe and surprise packed together that she swallows, her tongue nudging at his lips, sliding past, even as his hips jerk against hers.

Yes, just like that.

This *is* Richard Castle, of course, so he doesn't stay passive for long. Before she knows it, his arms have wrapped possessively around her back, bringing her as close as their winter clothes will allow, and he's kissing her, fierce and enthusiastic and so _Castle_ that it makes her heart pound, the blood rushing in her ears, warming her skin.

It's good. Damn it's good. But this is about turning the tables. This is about teaching him a lesson. Do not put a move on Kate Beckett in the slushy, grey snow.

With his mouth hot against hers, she works at the buttons of shirt; his coat bunches under her and he seems to be grunting his approval. She gets enough space to slip her fingers in, wriggling to make sure she's hit skin, and then she scoops up handfuls of snow from the dirty ground and slips her hands inside-

"Ah! Shit! Beckett-"

She grins against his lips, but doesn't stop, nibbling the corner of his mouth as she exacts her revenge. Her ice cold fingers blaze a freezing trail from his belly button to his hipbones, smearing snow as she goes, his skin rippling even as he pants, his body arching under her as he tries to move away.

And that's her downfall. The sensation of his pelvis rising up to meet hers, the hard, curving line of his body-

She moans into his mouth, resigns herself to making out a little in the cold snow.

Beckett feels his mouth curve into a responding leer, and his hands - that had released their death grip on her when she smuggled snow under his shirt - his hands curl at her sides and grind her down into him.

Kate gasps at the brutal encounter of their hips - so good - and retaliates by scraping his bottom lip with her teeth, loving the heat coursing through her body, her blood wild, breath hurried.

Castle growls into her mouth, the sound raw and low; his fingers wrap around her neck, as if to hold her there. As if there would ever be a reason for her to stop doing this, stop stroking his tongue with hers and drinking in that animal moan -

She arches suddenly, wrenching her lips from his, pressing up, her mouth open in shock and indignation but no sound coming out. Damn that's cold-

The bastard shoved snow down the back of her jeans. Right where he knows the skin is most sensitive. It's freaking cold and melting, and damn it, Castle-

"You're going to pay for that," she promises in a low, dangerous voice.

"I certainly hope so," he grins, unrepentant.

She scowls, because it was _his_ bright idea to start this in the first place and now she's caught somewhere between wanting to roll her hips harder into him and wanting to plaster his face with dirty snow.

Yeah. He needs to pay for this.

Kate leans on Castle's shoulder with her left arm, a clever move that he mistakes for an attempt to get closer when it's really a way to free her other hand. He tries to lift his head, meet her halfway; she allows their lips to brush together as she closes her fingers on the closest clump of snow. Icy cold, but she doesn't let the slightest shiver betray her.

Castle's tongue prods at her mouth, and she lets him in while she strengthens her hold on the handful of snow, packing it tight as she can just one-handed. She pants against his mouth, arching her hips into his as a trickle of snow melts down along her hip bone and shocks her skin.

Damn it. He is so going to get it.

She bites at his lower lip, stealthily lifts her snowball -

And just when she's so close, Castle's arm comes up at an unnatural speed, grabbing her by the wrist, so unexpected that the snowball crumbles in her grip and sprays ineffectually over his shoulder.

How did he even-

He gives her a look that's entirely too satisfied - smug bastard - and says, "Did you really think I wouldn't see that coming?"

And before she can do anything but glare in outrage, he's tangled his hand in her hair and yanked her mouth back to his, taking her by force.

Beckett jerks back, hips rocking, hears the thrilling growl of arousal vibrate in his chest, up his throat, and plants her hands on his shoulders. She stares down at him, pissed and aroused, and if she can't faceplant him in the snow, if she can't shove a handful of cold ice crystals down his pants, then she wants something else.

"Rick Castle, you better get me out of this snow and take me home."

His hands, no warmer than her own, crash under the barrier of her jeans, squeeze her cold ass. "You surrender?"

She bucks her hips, not sure if she's writhing away from his freezing fingers or just closer to his body. "Hell no, Castle. This isn't a surrender."

He rolls them quickly; she has time only to put a foot out in an attempt to stop their movement, causing her knee to come up between his thighs, pressing intimately. He groans and closes his eyes. "Yeah, just like that, Kate."

Her will dissolves like the snow down her back, the heat of his breathless indulgence and the sound of her name in that ragged voice causing her body to melt. "Castle, put up or shut up."

His fingers slide around to her waist, cold and unerring, working at the buttons of her jeans-

"No. Not - no. Take me home. Take me home-"

"Yours or mine?" he gasps, his mouth on her neck and ruthless.

"Don't care-"

"Can it be the same?" His mouth moves away from her skin, his face suddenly hovering over hers, his eyes intense and vulnerable and pleading. "Let it be the same."

"Same?" Her body is a rush of blood and heat and snow, and she wants only to have him, have him, and what is he talking about-?

"Yours is mine. Mine is yours. Same home, Kate. I want you to move in with me."

Her heart pounds; it makes it hard to hear anything he says, to concentrate at all. "What?"

"Move in with me." He nudges her pelvis with his own, a short rock against her that makes fire flare up her belly, down her thighs, licking at her insides.

"Ah, I - I-" She can't grasp words or meaning, can't understand anything but the way his body rolls into hers, undulations of persuasive percussions, his mouth back to her neck and seducing its way to her ear.

"Move in with me. Let me love you there."

Yes. Yes, anywhere.

"Castle-"

"Say yes, Kate. Just say yes."

She breathes against his skin, squeezes her eyes shut at the assault, feels her thighs aching wider, her body straining for him-

"Yes."


End file.
